My mom is ridiculous. This isn’t the kind of thing a good son writes about his mother, but I think the evidence bears it out. People ought to know.

Mom sends boxes of cookies and dessert bars to my kids as if they’re deployed on some humanitarian mission in a developing nation when, in fact, they’re living in a college dorm with a meal plan, or a perfectly adequate apartment supported by a stable job. Layered bars of chocolate, caramel and coconut are organized into compartments separating the nut-free from the original recipe, protecting peanut allergic friends. Collectively, these are packed into a box 8 inches to a side, labeled and shipped on a Monday morning so they can make their way, priority postage, to a grandchild. Shipments are timed for special occasions like holidays, final exams or a Thursday.

Once, when traveling with my son and meeting my parents for dinner, I saw my mother pull aside my grown kid and hand him an extra generous collection of homemade treats, sealed and wrapped appropriately for secure transport and extra densely packed for sharing with friends or an entire building. Simultaneously, I watched her slip my kid cash, covertly palm to palm. This diminutive, sub-5-foot 80-year-old woman working out of the trunk of her car emulated a back-alley drug deal, except she gave out pounds of baked goods along with extra spending money.

Mom cares for others especially well through nourishment, documenting recipes she’s liked, the adaptations made and just the general reaction of recipients. But I found the most notable log of her efforts a few years ago in her kitchen. A wide binder was weighed down on the counter by a thick portfolio of three-ring-punched pages, and on the spine was a carefully lettered label in my mom’s hand: “Funeral luncheons, vol. 3”

Mom has helped coordinate meals for lots of events, but perhaps the most generous of these are community contributions to her church for funerals. A family makes arrangements for the final service and Mom and others arrange food, either for a small family affair or half the town filling the parish hall. She has coordinated, contributed to and documented these meals for a long time, as evidenced by the “volume 3” label.

It’s this third volume that gets me. This means there was a first volume and then a second annex. And now that I think about it, it was a while ago since I saw that third in the series, so it’s likely that the collection has expanded to volumes 4 and 5. This is the essence of my mom, this dedicated preparation and extensive level of record keeping, perhaps neurosis. It’s also an act of love.

If I’m being honest, the feature of my mother that has confounded me the most is how much she loves. She’d put herself between a bear and a grandchild. She stays up late to poke a needle through batting over and over and over so that a quilt will commemorate a graduation or a birth or a yet-to-exist great-grandbaby. She weeps whenever we say goodbye. It’s exhausting; and it’s admirable. Over the decades I’ve evolved in how I see this, shifting from being perplexed to being in awe.

I’ve inherited many traits from my mom. Short arms and a shrinking stature. A neurological condition that causes my legs to vibrate when I’m trying to sleep. Maybe that tendency to get choked up. These genetic carryovers are unimportant, though, in comparison to what I learn from my mom through her examples. She models love to others in ways she knows best: a card or a quilt, a buttery bowl of Maine clam chowder or a cube wrapped in packing tape delivering chocolate layers.

Moms are tricky to honor. Around Mother’s Day, we send out cards that generalize motherhood as universal, characterized by spring and new life, new buds on trees and flower bouquets. I’m not excusing the fact that I haven’t sent one, but there are no cards made for my mother. My mom gives uniquely of herself, documented in binders and calories. Here is my simple acknowledgment that I should be more like my mom in love and generosity. In spite of all I inherit, I still have many volumes to learn from her and a lot of work to do.

Adam Johnston is a professor of physics and director of the Center for Science and Mathematics Education at Weber State University, where he helps prepare future teachers and supports educators throughout Utah.

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