Yesterday, I ran into Cindy, an old family friend. She lives in my hometown and worships at the church where I grew up. Cindy was a youth group volunteer when I was a teenager; her kids were in the youth group when I came back and served as a youth intern at College Street a few years later. She was in town taking care of some business and she stopped by my office for a quick visit.

Midway through our conversation, she said something that really meant a lot to me. I was telling her about a Christmas drive our church will be participating in to help out some of the children’s homes we work with. I was in the middle of a sentence when Cindy interrupted me and said, “Jason, I just have to tell you how much you look like your mother. Every time I look at your eyes, I think of her.” I can’t tell you how good that made me feel. When I was a teenager growing up, people would tell me all the time that I looked just like my mother. I agree with Cindy; it’s mainly in the eyes. (Joshua has her eyes, too.) But as a teen, I didn’t want to be told I looked like my mother. I wished more than anything that people would tell me that I looked like my Dad. I think when a young man loses his father, he wants people to validate him by saying he’s growing into the mold of his Dad. When they tell you that you look like your Mom, though, you just don’t want to hear it.

But yesterday was quite different. Her remark caught me a little off guard at first, but I quickly welcomed it as high praise. In fact, it made me swell up with pride on the inside. You see, I’m rarely around anybody who even knew my mother, so to hear Cindy share her memories of her was an uncommon blessing. She spoke of my mother’s grace and tenderness. She spoke of how my mother cared for my father during his illness. She spoke of what a special teacher my mother was. I showed her the plaque I keep on a shelf in my office that reads “The Myrna Bybee Compassion Award”, which is an award in my mother’s name that is presented each year to a teacher in my hometown who embodies the principles of compassion and grace in the classroom. Cindy teared up as she remembered how much my mother loved flowers and gardening. Cindy said she and another lady from church would bring petunias to my mother after she was diagnosed with melanoma. Every spring, Cindy said, when she sees the petunias in bloom, she thinks of my mother.

Our conversation was a brief one, maybe 5 minutes at most. But it was an incredibly rich experience for me, one that fills me with a spirit of thanksgiving. I think it was good for me to know that my mother’s memory is living on in someone else, someone outside of myself and my family. It’s good to know that people still remember my mother. It’s good to know that her influence lives on in others, not just in me.

I’ll miss my sweet mother tomorrow, as I do on every special occasion. I wish more than anything that she could be with us as we celebrate Thanksgiving. But thanks to Cindy, I also know that someone else thinks of her every now and then. I know that someone else misses her, too.

For that, I’m very thankful.