A SON'S TRIBUT TO HIS MOM

I pointed at a flower on the ground and asked my mom its name.

"Trillium," she said.

This was last week, but my whole life my mom has pointed out such things.

She finds beauty in all God's creations and remembers it. At times when other people would find despair, she balances illness with a spirit of joy. Even the hardest of times offer reasons to celebrate what is good in the world.

Her wisdom about what is important in life humbles me.

Too often I forget the names of the flowers and trees, plants and birds that are a part of her daily vocabulary. But I will never forget the love in her eyes when she talks about them.

As a gardener and a once-upon-a-time painter, she is a creator. And with flowers, she now paints the ground around her home. It is an inspiration to listen as a vision is born, and then to see it: draped upon a hillside, climbing into the sky.

Perhaps I should be embarrassed to admit it, but my mom leaves voice messages on my phone each time I write a column. Sometimes it is easy for newspaper writers to wonder if anyone truly does read what they write, because so few people ever comment. But when my column appears, almost always there is voice mail at the office with her thanks or a different point of view.

Mothers are special in that way: giving recognition or a hug when that is more important than any other kind of notice.

I know where my mom gained her spirit.

Some of it is natural, it seems, the quality common to all women. As such, it is God-given.

But much of it came directly from her mother, Virginia.

I know this because when I have lunch with my grandmother, there is a halo of joy and curiosity and vitality that surrounds her. She may be diminutive in size, but my grandmother is colossal in spirit.

A couple weeks ago we had lunch, and she told me stories about meeting her first husband, Jere.

It was at a wedding of a friend of hers from Slovakia. She had grown up with her in St. Louis. In her tale was the beginning of a love story that continued within her and her family and was passed on to my mother and father. I feel it every time she squeezes my hand and hugs me hello and good-bye.

No doubt my grandmother can talk about flowers and plants and birds like her daughter, but what amazes me even more is how she knows where countries are in the world.

At this lunch it was Slovakia. Previously, it was Tibet and Mongolia. Although I have been blessed to circle the globe as a student and at play, my grandmother has traversed it countless times in books and maps and newspapers. And it is with insatiable curiosity that she peppers me with questions about what she has read, and I often have to tap dance to keep up.

Together, her own family is special, and I can't help but grin to see my grandmother with her three daughters, each different, and yet the same in spirit.

What son can't feel humbled thinking about all his mother has done for him?

And, with those blessed, to know the love of a grandmother?

Thank you God.

John K. Rust is co-president of Rust Communications.