Mother’s Day, for me, has always been one of those Hallmark holidays celebrated with greeting cards and church ceremonies, maybe appreciated more by moms than moms being appreciated. I don’t know if this Mother’s Day will be different for me or not, but I certainly have a different appreciation for my mom and for mothers in general.

My mom sent me coupons for cereal and other dry goods when I was living hand-to-mouth in my 20s, value shopping the bottom shelves for store brand calories to keep myself alive. She supported me when I was a vagabond, spending more time playing and exploring than working. She allowed me to move back into their house when I ran completely out of money at age 30, despite the fact that my dad was very unhappy about his son becoming a lazy, good-for-nothing bum. She hoped for the best but nurtured me through the worst.

She helped me get started in business with the DoubleShot. Neither one of us knew what we were doing, but my mom knew bookkeeping and navigated all the many government licenses, taxes, permits, fees, certificates, and filings. She worked through the complexities of all our insurance policies, payroll, IRAs, invoices, bills, accounts, debts, assets, and my never-ending quest to further complicate matters with new ideas.

She cooked dinner on Sunday and invited us kids over, always. Roast, rice and gravy. That’s what we eat on Sundays. She loved to cook and entertain. When we were growing up, my mom watched Julia Child on TV, and would write down recipes to make in her own kitchen. Sometimes that worked out and sometimes it didn’t, but she was never afraid to try. She read to my brother and me from Emily Post’s Etiquette and the NIV Bible, hoping to instill manners and morality into our hearts and minds. I came away with her desire to provide a place for people to break bread together, her sense of exploration, and a determination to stick to a code of ethics (however sloppy I’ve been in its execution), and my want of manners was not for lack of effort on her part.

The relationship between mother and son can be complicated. She instinctually desires to mother her child even when he is an adult, and I think it can be hard for the mom to let her son make mistakes and learn from experience and failure. My mother and I got into an argument about changes in the early days of DoubleShot that ended in us parting ways for a couple years. It ended with me saying things that a son should never say to his mother. And in her absence I made a terrible mess of all the things mentioned above that she so meticulously kept in order. We eventually reconciled, me apologizing and paying her back the money she’d loaned me and her telling me she forgave me (and, thankfully, coming back to work at DoubleShot).

In some way I didn’t think much of that forgiveness, maybe because I didn’t feel like a mother should hold a grudge against her son. After all, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. But forgiveness is a gift. A mother forgives her kids like she would never forgive anyone else. And a mother’s forgiveness is like none you’ll ever receive from anyone else.

Of course, I realized this too late. My mother died a month ago. Before she died she told me she loved me so much. She apologized for not being a perfect mother. She said she did her best but knew she’d failed at times. I apologized to her for being a terrible son. I should’ve begged her forgiveness, but I knew that she already forgave.

I went on a trip last week to Nicaragua. I got on the plane early in the morning and grabbed my phone to text my mom, like I always did. And again in Houston. And again when I landed in Nicaragua. I took photos I knew my mom would enjoy seeing. I remembered stopping at a Catholic Church in Sebaco last year to buy her a beautiful rosary. I looked around the airport for chocolate bars she might like. Of course, this time I didn’t send a text or photos and I didn’t stop at the church and I didn’t buy any chocolate bars. And I realized I’m all alone. I realized those text messages weren’t just for her, they were also for me. It reminded me that someone out there cared where I was and worried that I was ok. And this new feeling of aloneness reminded me that no one in my entire life has ever loved me like my mother loved me, and probably no one ever would. She didn’t just love me for my good qualities and the things I did for her. She loved me despite the fact that I could do some really terrible things. To me, it goes back to that forgiveness. It’s easy to love someone when they’re nice to you. My mother loved me when I was mean to and dismissive of her. She loved me when I was too busy to give her the time she wanted and needed. She loved me when I caused trouble. She loved me when I failed to secure a long-term relationship with a woman, and even bought me a turtleneck and a cat calendar in support of what she must’ve thought was an alternative lifestyle. She even loved me when she yelled at me and scolded me for going behind her back to try and get her help when she was sick. It’s one thing to know it at the time. It’s quite another thing to realize the depth of it after she’s gone. All too late.

I’m reading a book right now written by a man about his time in a Nazi concentration camp during WWII. He talks about the dreariness and misery of camp life. Then he talks about a time when he started thinking about his wife. He talked to her though she wasn’t there. And he imagined her, loved her. And he looked up onto the mountainside and saw a light come on in a cabin, piercing through the pre-dawn darkness. He writes that a bird landed on the pile of dirt he’d dug out of a trench, and it stood looking at him for a long while. He seemed to take these things as signs of her presence. He didn’t know if his wife was alive or dead, but it didn’t matter. What I think he was saying was her love for him, regardless of the circumstances, was enough to buoy his spirits. And he even began to attribute her spirit onto seemingly random occurrences as a reminder of her love. The knowledge that real love exists within oneself, whether it manifests in someone else or not, is what religious people talk about when they speak of God. I know that feeling. I find it most in the stillness and quiet of nature (though perhaps it's not nature itself but the spirit of love one feels and assigns to things in that stillness). I’ve known it for a long time, but I misunderstood it and took it for granted.

Make no mistake, the DoubleShot wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for my mom’s help, hard work, forgiveness, and support. I brought a knowledge, curiosity, and desire to do things differently. But she pedaled while I steered. She’s gone now and we’ve spent the past couple of years learning how to operate without her. But just like love kept that man afloat in the concentration camp, there’s a spirit within the business that will help us in time of need. My mother’s life and all the foundations she helped build over 20 years at DoubleShot are part of its DNA. She birthed me and we birthed it.

The ensuing months and years will be different. Not just for me, but for all of us. You don’t know it yet, but current events will trickle down until it becomes a torrent. Now it’s time for me to ask your forgiveness. Of my seemingly erratic behavior and hopefully not-too-oft outbursts. And I ask for your support. Support to get through the coming months, and to help us continue to live out my life’s work: providing you a space to live your life, providing jobs and security to our little band of misfit staff, providing a source of pride and profits to so many coffee producers. And creating a community that connects you to each other, to the people serving you coffee and food, and to the people who work hard to produce all of the goods you enjoy here. It all seems very important. And now it’s not just my legacy, it’s indelibly connected to my mom.

I listened to a podcast yesterday that featured the astrophysicist, Neil DeGrasse Tyson. He talked about the possibility that life is all a simulation created by a higher civilization. It begs the question of life’s purpose if this may or may not be real. And in the end it doesn't matter what is, only what we think is real. Then he said something insightful:

Live life so that the world is better off for you having lived in it.

I know my mom did that. Now it’s up to me.

Happy Mother’s Day. Thank you moms for being the kind of people who have the capacity to show us what unconditional love actually is. Amazing.