They were the last gift I ever gave her.

That year, during Mother’s Day week, my mom passed into eternity. We laid her to rest under a spray of beautiful white roses. These lush flowers of June celebrated the precious joy of the month her parents welcomed her into this world. The bright baptismal white celebrated the more precious but harder hope with which her children commended her to God’s care.

Quietly, though, I took some of the wilting carnations my mom had enjoyed so much and left them with her, tucked under the fresh white roses she never saw. This was not merely sentimental. In so many ways, my mom’s life — like that of so many mothers — was the story of simple carnations, not splashy roses.

In the years I was blessed with mom at my side, there were special “rose” moments — travel together, special celebrations, landmark family occasions that she and I both planned and celebrated. I remember extraordinary times like these with joy and gratitude.

Yet, what I cherish most are the simple “carnation” moments that filled those years. It is the way Mom called me when I had early classes to make sure I did not oversleep — and called me when I had late classes to make sure I was safely home. She always found a reason for coffee when we were running errands, and she waited to have dinner with me even when I got home after midnight. Her home held more of my belongings than hers long after I had moved away, and she let me plan extravagant birthday parties for my cat. She mailed home-baked cookies, newspaper clippings and loving letters to me. My mailbox still seems strangely empty after all these years. 

She accepted with gracious enthusiasm — and maybe some fear! — a fragile bathrobe I once glued together for her because sewing was not in my childhood skill set. She sewed a trunk full of clothes for my dolls and years of Halloween costumes for me. Mom let my siblings and me “tailgate” in the parking lots of fast-food restaurants because I thought everything tasted better sitting in the trunk of a station wagon. The carnation moments are in the patience with which she took us shopping for Halloween pumpkins and Christmas trees and endured the seriousness with which I made these weighty purchases. She celebrated St. Lucy’s Day for me every December and played the piano, often starting or ending these concerts playing “Santa Lucia” just because I liked it. Mom lit candles after Mass when she prayed for all those she loved, and family photographs (not fine art) had pride of place in her home. 

And then there are all the ways she loved Dad.

I hope my mom knew how special these everyday simple moments were and that they brought her the same joy they still bring me. I like to think they did.

This Mother’s Day, if your mother is still with you, I hope that you celebrate with all that is grand, exuberant and special. More importantly, though, I hope that on an ordinary Thursday afternoon, long after Mother’s Day has passed, some carnations will catch your eye. I hope that you will buy them — especially if they are on sale. I hope you tie them together with rubber bands and give them to your mother. If this Mother’s Day, your heart aches a bit, you will be in my prayers. Don’t wait for a special occasion or a grand gesture. Enjoy the simple, blessed, beautiful blooms of ordinary times.