A View from a Pew: A White Carnation for Mama

There are moments when I instinctively reach for my phone to call my mother, only to remember—she won’t be answering. Not this time. Not ever again. She’s gone. And that reality never stops stinging.

Sometimes, grief grabs hold of you out of nowhere. A song comes on the radio, a scent catches you off guard, or a memory strolls quietly across your heart—and the tears fall before you can even name the feeling. I’ve had to pull the car over more than once because I couldn’t see through the tears. The world calls it the grieving process. I call it missing my mother.

Just the other night, I shared with my wife how my mother made sure we knew how to properly set a dinner table. Forks on the left, knife and spoon on the right. She believed in order, in excellence, in raising children who knew how to handle both themselves and a table setting. That memory brought laughter... and, as usual, some tears I tried to blink away.

Mother’s Day is just around the corner. And growing up, that Sunday morning meant something special. You’d walk into church and immediately notice—the flowers. Carnations pinned to dresses and lapels. A tradition that didn’t need to be explained because everyone just knew.

The rule was simple but sacred:
If your mother is living, you wear red.
If your mother has passed, you wear white.
And if you are a mother, you wear pink.

Back then, I didn’t fully grasp the meaning behind those colors. But now, as a member of the white carnation club, I understand deeply. That white flower on my lapel doesn’t just represent loss—it represents legacy.

Anna Jarvis, the founder of Mother’s Day in America, knew that too well. After losing her mother—who taught Sunday school and tended a garden full of white carnations—Anna sent 500 of those flowers to her mother’s church in 1907. She asked that each mother receive one. That small act of remembrance blossomed into a national tradition, and by the 1940s, carnations were officially recognized as the flower of Mother’s Day.

Anna believed the white carnation captured the heart of motherhood. She once wrote: “Its whiteness stands for purity; its lasting qualities, faithfulness; its fragrance, love; its wide field of growth, charity; its form, beauty.”

This Sunday, I’ll wear my white carnation again. And I won’t be alone. There will be others—men and women alike—honoring mamas who now live only in memories, stories, and the little habits they left behind.

So, if you’re blessed to still have your mother, I urge you: call her. Hug her. Say thank you. Don’t wait for a special occasion—because she is the occasion.

If you’re a mother, wear your pink with pride. You are the living legacy of those who came before you, and the bridge to the generation rising behind you.

And if, like me, you’ll be wearing white—know this: your mother’s love didn’t end when she left. It lives on in you. In the way you set the table. In the way you speak kindly. In the way you love hard and give freely. That’s her. Still showing up. Still teaching. Still mothering.

I miss my mother. Every day. But this Sunday, I’ll carry her with me—in my heart and on my lapel.