Okay, Mother’s day is an invented, over-hyped pseudo-holiday to get us to spend money. But it’s also a great idea to honor good old Mom. Seriously, when else would we do it?

We need to be nudged into expressing our love and appreciation for all the care and schooling we’ve received. The wisdom of mothers is kind of like a soaker hose in the garden. We hear it over and over until we tune it out. No matter. The seed has been planted, to bear fruit in later years.

When my kids roll their eyes at me, I often respond, “I know things.” It’s OK if they think I’m chronically wrong. Sooner or later, they’ll see that I was nearly always right. I can live with that.

Simcha Fisher had a great post about the things her mother taught her that were right. (You really should read this!) Here’s my favorite:

“Charity believes all things. The good you see in people may not be the whole truth about them, but it is true. So start there, and make a fuss over it until it turns into something more.”

Even though my mom never put it into words, she has lived this truth as long as I’ve known her. She truly sees the good in everyone, and squints her eyes at everything else. Relatives, by birth, marriage or adoption, couldn’t stop her from loving them, even with a pick axe. Just knowing someone makes them her lifelong friend and everlasting concern.

Here’s a perfect example of her tenacious love. We moved to Texas in 1973, but my mom kept contact with our next door neighbor from Oklahoma until her death in 2010. The last few years, when “Aunt Thelma” was drifting past awareness with a tragic case of dementia, my mom faithfully sent cards to the nursing home. She always wrote instructions on the back of the envelope. “Please open this card and read it to Thelma. And call me collect to let me know she got it.” (Never mind that the need for collect phone calls extends only to the incarcerated in our modern age of cell phones.)

And strangers would call. “I read your card to Thelma. She smiled when I said your name.” That little nod of awareness would lift my mom’s spirits for days.

When she got word that Thelma had finally crossed the finish line, my mom grieved as if she’d lost a sister.

I will never be the kind of friend my mother has been. But whatever efforts I make in reaching out to people I love, I owe to her fine example.

Here’s to you, Mimi – the honey badger of friendship!

My delight over Junior’s good fortune, to be lucky in love at long last, has brought him to mind a lot lately. Now that I think about it, our relationship with him has been both a penance and a blessing. Especially for my husband, Junior’s friendship has weighed heavier on the side of grief than joy.

There are lots of stories about Junior in our family lore, especially from his days as a ne’er-do-well. Ben employed him over and over, and each time it started great and ended badly. His poor taste in girlfriends worried me, but when their nearly constant drama spilled onto Junior and kept him from work, it impacted Ben directly in the wallet. Over and over, he just kept forgiving Junior, and loving him past the bad times.

The closest Junior ever came to losing Ben’s friendship forever happened one Fall day in Jackson, Mississippi. We were enjoying a spontaneous road trip to Ben’s mother’s home in Birmingham when Junior called with alarming news. His all-time worst girlfriend was in ICU again, and they were pretty sure she had TB.

Turns out Junior and Ben had used the same respirator when spraying lacquer the day before. Ben jumped to the conclusion that Junior’s crazy girlfriend had given us both an old-fashioned case of the consumption.

Now, Ben has a habit of reacting badly to troubling news, in a way that is loud, repetitive and more than a tad over-blown. This is known among close friends and family as “going autistic”. (Junior named this phenomenon long ago. I think he really meant “ballistic,” but we’ve adopted his term.) So, Ben went “autistic”, which was particularly troubling to me, since he was driving at the time. I took comfort in the knowledge that these fits usually end as abruptly as they begin. But this episode just would not quit.

And I could see his point. This was absolutely the worst possible moment to become carriers of an airborne contagion. We were on our way to visit his step-dad, who was right smack in the middle of chemotherapy, leaving him with flimsy resistance to infectious diseases.

Luckily, I had an inside track. My boss is an excellent physician who knows just about everything about just about every disease, so I called him right away. He immediately assured me that the chance of us contracting TB in such a round-about way was virtually impossible. I made Ben take an oath of agreement to keep the phantom TB under our hats, so as not to worry the old folks. Ben kept his promise, but didn’t believe for a minute that we were disease-free. (Which we were. This was the biggest case of invented grief ever. When we got home, and probed further, it turned out that they just tested Junior’s girlfriend for TB. Junior shares Ben’s flare for the dramatic.)

Even though the reason for our visit was to spend time with his step-father, Ben did his level best to avoid his company, sure that he was employing heroic, life-saving measures. When forced to occupy common space, he insisted on sitting in the farthest corner and holding his breath. When push came to shove, he tried to breathe out of only one nostril. It was quite a sight. (What can I say? The man is stubborn, and gets all his exercise from jumping to conclusions.)

My husband steadfastly vowed that Junior was officially ejected from our lives. He vowed it the rest of the way to Birmingham, in stolen whispered moments during the visit, and all the way back. It was the most sustained “autistic” episode I’d ever witnessed.

But it didn’t last. Junior has given Ben much better reasons than imaginary TB to turn his back on him, forever.  Every time, Ben eventually but generously offers forgiveness, allowing the lovable rascal to worm his way back into his heart.

And who knows how much of Junior’s redemption can be traced to his tenuous, long-standing relationship with my husband? Who can say what the effect of a good example has on a life? Living in close enough proximity to observe Ben’s stellar qualities, in season and out of season, has certainly made me a better person. (And his rare outbreaks of “autism” have expanded my capacity to practice patience. Everything serves.)

I was a little nervous, reading this post to my husband. He said, “I love it!” (That’s what he always says.) 

“But doesn’t it bother you that I’m letting the whole world know that, on rare occasions, you go ‘autistic’?”

“Everybody who knows me, knows I go ‘autistic’. That’s no secret!”

So I’m happy to report that this post has Ben’s stamp of approval. (And even though Junior can read, he doesn’t. I’m home free!)