When I was growing up， Mother's Day was as important as Christmas．

The energy around the house was always positive（积极的）， mostly thanks to my father who made sure that his kids appreciated their mother， We would clean the house， and Mum got breakfast in bed in the morning and didn't have to lift a finger all day． And in the evening， we went to a restaurant for a traditional Mother's Day dinner．

What I learned from my father over the years， was that no matter what， he always put my mother before himself． He absolutely loved her and never let her forget that． And from my parents， I learned a thing or two about how to love．

I maintain（保持） my father's Mother's Day tradition with my wife． Growing up， I learned that showing affection to the woman you love or who gave birth to you is an important part of life． You see， it goes both ways， and the love you have for your mother comes back to you again and again．

Believing that and feeling it when you can may keep you from being lonely， even if your mum isn't close by or has passed away． There are a number of us who no longer have a mother in our lives， and truth be told， there are often times when I wish my mum were still here to comfort me． So instead， I remember the times she did just that． It makes me smile， and somehow， those memories of a more simple and loving life give me the comfort I'm looking for．

My wife's mother is still around， however， and it's great to have that "mother energy" in my life still． Having this relationship with my mother-in-law is nice because it gives me someone to be there for on Mother's Day， and any other day of the year．

If you are mum-less， you too should find a deserving woman in your life and celebrate Mother's Day with her． If you don't know anyone， there are plenty of lonely mums in rest homes who would enjoy your company for a couple of hours． The visit will make both of your days， and perhaps your lives， a little bit better．

Sometimes just when we need the power of miracles to change our beliefs, they materialize in the places we’d least expect. They can come to us as a great change in our physical reality or as a simple coincidence in our lives. Sometimes they’re big and can’t be missed. Other times they’re so subtle that if we aren’t aware, we may miss them altogether. They can come from the lips of a stranger we suddenly and mysteriously meet at just the right instant. If we listen carefully, we’ll always hear the right words, at the right time, to dazzle (目眩) us into a realization of something that we may have failed to notice only moments before.

On a cold January afternoon in 1989, I was hiking up the trail that leads to the top of Egypt’s Mt. Horeb. I’d spent the day at St. Catherine’s Monastery and wanted to get to the peak by sunset to see the valley below. As I was winding up the narrow path, I’d occasionally see other hikers who were coming down from a day on the mountain. While they would generally pass with simply a nod or a greeting in another language, there was one man that day who did neither.

I saw him coming from the last switchback on the trail that led to the backside of the mountain. As he got closer, I could see that he was dressed differently from the other hikers I’d seen. Rather than the high-tech fabrics and styles that had been the norm, this man was wearing traditional Egyptian clothing. He wore a tattered, rust-colored galabia and obviously old and thick-soled sandals that were covered in dust. What made his appearance so odd, though, was that the man didn’t even appear to be Egyptian! He was a small-framed Asian man, had very little hair, and was wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses.

As we neared one another, I was the first to speak, “Hello,” I said, stopping on the trail for a moment to catch my breath. Not a sound came from the man as he walked closer. I thought that maybe he hadn’t heard me or the wind had carried my voice away from him in another direction. Suddenly he stopped directly in front of me on the high side of the trail, looked up from the ground, and spoke a single sentence to me in English, “Sometimes you don’t know what you have lost until you’ve lost it.” As I took in what I had just heard, he simply stepped around me and continued his going down the trail.

That moment in my life was a small miracle. The reason is less about what the man said and more about the timing and the context. The year was 1989, and the Cold War was drawing to a close. what the man on the trail couldn’t have known is that it was during my Egyptian pilgrimage (朝圣), and specifically during my hike to the top of Moses’s mountain, that I’d set the time aside to make decisions that would affect my career in the defense industry, my friends, my family, and, ultimately, my life.

I had to ask myself what the chances were of an Asian man dressed in an Egyptian galabia coming down from the top of this historic mountain just when I was walking up, stopping before me, and offering his wisdom, seemingly from out of nowhere. My answer to my own question was easy: the odds were slim to none! In a meet that lasted less than two minutes on a mountain halfway around the world from my home, a total stranger had brought clarity and the hint of a warning, regarding the huge changes that I would make within a matter of days. In my way of thinking, that’s a miracle.

I suspect that we all experience small miracles in our lives every day. Sometimes we have the wisdom and the courage to recognize them for what they are In the moments when we don’t, that’s okay as well. It seems that our miracles have a way of coming back to us again and again. And each time they do, they become a little less subtle, until we can’t possibly miss the message that they bring to our lives!

The key is that they’re everywhere and occur every day for different reasons, in response to the different needs that we may have in the moment. Our job may be less about questioning the extraordinary things that happen in our daily lives and more about accepting the gifts they bring.

Standing on the shore of a lake, I can’t help wondering about the tens or hundreds of thousands of small rocks that surround my boots. They were all created from hard surfaces, their edges softening over time.

And I wonder, can we learn from a pile of rocks?

Even the tallest mountains have worm down; none are as tall as they were 1000 years ago. And much like a rock, I’ve found my attitude has softened and my desire to better understand others has expanded with each trip around the sun.

Once I was a sharp rock covered in pointy edges. Today, after decades of the waters of life flowing quickly over me, my edges are softer and more understanding I’m less likely to judge and more interested in learning how we can exist together.

But I’m not a rock. I’m a human being filled with all the drama built into my DNA.

Two years ago, while traveling in the Pacific Northwest, I watched a restaurant owner ask several people to leave for not wearing masks. Not forceful and not rude. On the door read a sign: “Please wear a mask before entering our restaurant. We don’t like it either, but let’s all do what we can to get through this together.”

The group of young men wished to argue about the note.

I sat watching, understanding both sides. I’ve been those guys before, using my youthful edges to chip away at the world. What I lost, however, was the ability to grow from experiences by looking through the eyes of others. In learning to be more open, I’ve also found more happiness and success.

You can put more rounded rocks in a jar than those with sharp edges. The former look for ways to adjust and make room for others; the latter never give an inch to accommodate others.

Time, like the waters rolling against once sharp stones, changes us by washing away our resistance to seeing the world from another’s point of view.

I placed a rounded stone into my jacket pocket. Mother Nature is holding class again.