"Mother" is not a name. It is a divine function!
Mother's Day. The day when women who aren't mothers but wish they were feel the burden a bit more; the day when guilty husbands serve breakfast in bed and make a bigger mess than it's worth; the day when mothers reflect again on the whole business and decide it's worth it after all.
One day four ministers stood talking and, as so often happens, the conversation soon drifted to shop talk. "I prefer the King James Version of Scripture," said one, "for its eloquent use of the English language." A second minister gave forth that no Bible could match the New American Standard for its faithfulness to the original Greek and Hebrew text. "That may well be," said the third, "but I prefer the New International Version for its contemporary language and easy readability." There was a thoughtful period of silence, and then the fourth minister said, "I like my mother's translation best."
Once again it is Mother's Day. It's a nostalgic moment for me, as it is for most of us. My earliest memories of Mother's Day go back to our little white Cape Cod home in Arlington, Massachusetts, surrounded by the white picket fence. In those days, it was the custom, at least in New England, that on Mother's Day you wore a flower. It was a token of respect to your mother. A white carnation in her memory if she was dead, a red carnation to celebrate her presence if she was living. I'm sort of sorry that custom has gone out of style.