My mother has a momentous birthday today.  This weekend, the entire family gathered in New Orleans to celebrate it and the many generations of her family.  As a gift, we put together a book of memories/thoughts of and about her.  It was an inspiring book, evidence of what has already been an amazing life.  Here is what I wrote about my mother:

The Mother of The Blessed Man

I propose that a blessed man goes through three defining stages in his life.

In the first, as a child, he finds that he is astonishingly lucky.  He excels without really trying.  He succeeds without really meaning to.  He walks away from the worst falls without a scratch, and laughs at the fortune that brings him health, happiness, and delightful things.  He questions little.

This child invariably matures into a natural arrogance that disavows luck and finds it proper and right to credit his many successes to his own intelligence, skill, and hard work.  “Luck is for the lazy,” says this bright young man.  “I’ll make my own luck, on my own, thank you very much.”  This second stage can last a long, long, ugly time.

The third stage hits a man slowly (over the course of years if he is particularly self-absorbed), or rarely, all at once, in a lightning bolt of realization.  Either way, he will go to bed one painful night, and stare at the dark ceiling, and think with horror, “Oh no…I’ve had it all wrong.”

In the third stage, the man realizes that as a child he was never lucky.  And he realizes that as a young man he never made his own luck.  Instead, he begins to see, at every stage of his life he has succeeded only with the support of those who watched out for him.  Constantly, quietly, a series of advocates have orchestrated a happy life for this man.  Like stage hands between acts they have moved the set pieces of his life so that the easiest path has always presented itself.  While he slept at night, they have busily discussed threats to his happiness, and gently nudged those threats out of the way.  Through a lifetime of innocuous interactions they have given the man the skills he needs to succeed on his own, even though he will never truly be “on his own.”  And quite likely, almost certainly, one person has choreographed this invisible dance of care and support.  In my case, it was my mother.

This is why, if you were to ask me for a standout memory of my mother, I’m not sure I could come up with a compelling one.  Perhaps the time she stayed up all night to sew me a puppet for the school play.  Perhaps the way she would absently stroke my hair as a child while we watched TV together.  Perhaps the time I was hit by a car and she rushed into the hospital so white faced and terrified that everyone, even the doctors who knew I was fine, were scared with her.  But that’s as dramatic as my memories of my mother get.  Why?  Why can’t I think of something funnier, or sadder, or more interesting?  I suppose because she’s done such a damn good job, invisibly, ever-present, and without once asking for reward or recognition.

How do you thank someone for this kind of devotion?  How do you honor them.  Well…you don’t.  You, gentle reader, may not understand this, but the finest thing I can say about my mother is that I take her for granted, and spoiled brat that I am, I always have and always will.  Never once have I had to doubt her.  Never once have I had to ask her if she loved me.  Never once have I had to look over my shoulder to make sure she was right behind me.  I just knew she would be.  So no fond memories here.  Just a dim awareness that the only real luck is the kind others make for you, whether you deserve it or not.

May you all be so lucky as to take your mothers for granted.  Happy Birthday, Mom.

Chris