Mother’s Day

How Mother’s Day Became a Global Celebration

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–3 minutes

The Forgotten Fight Behind Mother’s Day

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Mother’s Day Celebration Groff Media 2025©

Every year, in nearly every corner of the world, people buy flowers. They write cards and call their mothers to say “thank you.” But few know that Mother’s Day wasn’t always a celebration of brunches and bouquets. It began with a fight. It wasn’t with fists or fire, but with letters and marches. It involved the relentless will of one determined daughter.

The story starts in the United States in the late 1800s. It begins just after a brutal civil war tore the country apart. Ann Reeves Jarvis lived in a small town in West Virginia. She was a mother who believed that motherhood was more than just raising children. It was about strengthening communities. She organized “Mother’s Work Clubs” to teach women how to care for their families and treat illness. During the war, she crossed enemy lines to care for wounded soldiers. Being a mother meant healing, even in a time of hate for her.

When Ann died in 1905, her daughter Anna Jarvis was devastated. But in her grief, she found purpose. Anna believed that mothers—their love, their sacrifices, their invisible labor—deserved to be honored privately and publicly. She envisioned a day when everyone would pause to recognize the power of a mother’s influence.

Mother’s Day Begins Groff Media 2025©

In 1908, Anna held the first official Mother’s Day in her mother’s church. She sent 500 white carnations—her mother’s favorite flower—for the guests. But that was just the beginning. Anna wrote thousands of letters to politicians and ministers, urging them to create a holiday for mothers. She battled for six years until 1914 when the U.S. president made it official: the second Sunday of May would be known as Mother’s Day.

The idea spread across borders and oceans, and countries worldwide adopted it—each adapting it in their way. In Thailand, it aligns with the queen’s birthday. In Ethiopia, it’s celebrated with a family feast. But at its heart, it remains the same: a day to honor the women who shape our lives.

Mothers Day Groff Media 2025©

Ironically, Anna later grew furious at how commercialized Mother’s Day had become—filled with store-bought gifts rather than heartfelt thanks. But she couldn’t even stop its global march. The world had embraced the idea, and the spirit of that first small ceremony had taken root.

The next time you give your mother a flower or a call, remember. This day began not with marketing. It also did not start with tradition. It started with one woman’s vow to never let the world forget what mothers truly do.

The Memory Game: A Humorous Tale of Aging

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–4 minutes

“The Memory Game”

Earl and Edna had been married for fifty-two years. In those five decades, they had developed a comfortable rhythm, like an old song they both knew by heart. Lately, the lyrics were getting harder to remember.

It all started on a Tuesday morning when Earl stood in the living room, scratching his head.

“Edna,”

He called,

“have you seen my glasses?”

“They’re on your head, Earl,”

Edna replied from the kitchen, her voice tinged with amusement.

Earl patted his scalp and chuckled.

“Well, I’ll be. Guess I’ve been wearing ‘em this whole time.”

But later that day, Edna forgot to turn off the iron. This left a suspicious scorch mark on Earl’s good slacks. That evening, Earl nearly brushed his teeth with muscle ointment. The next morning, Edna scheduled a doctor’s appointment—for both of them.

At Dr. Preston’s office, they sat side by side, holding hands, looking like two nervous schoolchildren awaiting their report cards.

“Doctor,”

Edna began,

“we’re both starting to forget things. Little things, mostly, but…”

Dr. Preston smiled kindly.

“That’s perfectly normal as we get older. One strategy that helps is to write things down. Keep a notepad handy, leave little notes where you’ll see them. It makes a world of difference.”

Earl snorted.

“Write things down? My memory’s just fine. It’s Edna’s that needs the fixing.”

Dr. Preston gave them both a knowing look.

“Just try it. You’ll thank me.”

When they got home, Edna felt a nap coming on and settled into her recliner with a cozy blanket. Earl switched on the TV, flipping channels, landing on a baseball game he wasn’t really watching.

After a while, Edna sat up.

“Earl, dear, would you go to the kitchen and get me a dish of ice cream?”

Earl muted the TV.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

“And write it down, so you don’t forget.”

Earl waved her off.

“Nonsense, Edna. It’s a dish of ice cream. I’ve got it.”

“But I’d like strawberries on it too,”

She added.

“And whipped cream.”

Earl tapped his temple confidently.

“Ice cream, strawberries, whipped cream. No problem.”

Edna gave him a skeptical look.

“You sure you don’t want to write it down?”

Earl shook his head and marched into the kitchen.

For the next fifteen minutes, Edna listened as pots clanged. Cabinet doors creaked. The microwave beeped, and something—was that the blender?—whirred loudly.

Finally, Earl returned, triumphant, a plate in his hands.

“Here you go!”

He declared, setting the plate on her lap.

Edna stared at the plate. Bacon. Eggs. A sprig of parsley.

She looked up at him with an exasperated sigh.

“Earl, where’s the toast I asked for?”

Earl blinked, confused.

“Toast?”

Edna shook her head, laughing despite herself.

“Looks like we’re both making notes from now on.”

Earl sat down beside her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Maybe we should just order takeout.”

And together, they chuckled, holding hands, as the baseball game played softly in the background.

After a moment, Earl squinted at the screen.

“Edna… do you know who’s winning? I can’t tell.”

Edna grinned slyly.

“That’s because, Earl… you’re on first base.”

Earl frowned.

“I’m on first base?”

“No, no,”

Edna said, shaking her head with mock seriousness,

“Who’s on first.”

Earl’s eyes widened.

“Who’s on first?”

Edna corrected, her eyes twinkling.

“No, Who’s on third,”

They both burst out laughing. They cackled until they were wiping tears from their eyes. The baseball game was long forgotten. Their memories were momentarily lost, but their joy was perfectly intact.

Sharing A Story About “Cleaning Nana’s House” by KJ Stafford

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

4–7 minutes

My mother will turn 95 this August—if she makes it that far. Of the six siblings, only my youngest sister and I have cared for her in her old age. Two of the others gradually drifted away after our father passed. They chose, for their own reasons, to cut contact year by year. The two oldest brothers have both died in recent years.

My mother has always had a sharp mind and a strong, toned body. She was constantly on the move, always busy. Even into her 90s, she remained active and mentally alert. But over the past year, she’s started to slip. She now experiences episodes of sundowning. During these moments, she loses track of what she’s saying. She also becomes unaware of where she is or where she’s been.

She now lives far away from me. Our once hour-long phone conversations, filled with talk of daily life, have been reduced to five minutes or less. Her thoughts drift. She forgets what we’re discussing, where she is, or even who she’s speaking with.

The next is a piece shared with me by KJ Stafford, titled “Cleaning Nana’s House.” It resonated deeply. My sisters and I cleaned the house we’d all grown up in. This was before my mother moved in with me for several years. She later moved in with my sister, where she now lives. Stafford’s words capture an experience I believe many can relate to, and with her blessing, I’m sharing it here.

CLEANING NANA’S HOUSE

BY: KJ Stafford

In January of 2024 we moved my Nana into my parents house. Her health was failing, and so was her mind. She was no longer able to live alone anymore and she hated that fact. The woman had been independent her entire life. And now at 90 years old she was forced to be cared for. She could no longer take care of herself. I remember the thought hurting my heart. 


Fast forward to February 2025, I held her hand hours before she passed. I had never experienced death in that way before. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve dealt with death- both grandpa’s, aunts, uncles… but this was different. It had never been so in my face the way this was. I had never been physically there, witnessing the deterioration every day, every hour. I had never actually watched death slowly take someone. They are memories that will be buried inside my brain until death comes for me. Descriptions that will never make it down on paper ––


April 25th 2025: We piled in our cars, drove the 7 hours to my Nana’s house and began the task of clearing out our memories to make room for someone else’s. My Nana had lived in that house for over 50 years. My mom grew up there. My siblings and I spent weeks there during the summer and until 2024 every Thanksgiving of my life was spent in that tiny dining room around the round, antique wood table. The kitchen looks as if it got stuck in the 70’s. Yellow countertops remind me of sunflowers. The floor is tiled and worn from years of cooking. Years of family gatherings. Years of love. There’s the iconic green couch that sits in the living room…or sat- now it will be given to another family. Moved into a different living room after sitting comfortably in it’s corner for all of these years.

We found love letters from my Grampy to my Nana, boxes of old black and white photographs, ancient toys, jewelry, coats that have somehow found their way back in style, antique glass and trinkets galore. Each find triggering a specific memory. Each find making me wish I could go back 15 years ago. When I was just coming up for the week to visit. Instead of it being the last time within these cozy walls. 


My Nana was by far the strongest woman I’ve ever met. She grew up in Canada, abandoned by her mother before she was 8 years old, left with an alcoholic for a father who was never around. She spent Canadian winters in their small, wooden shack often times by herself. Venturing out into the thick snow every so often to find more logs for the fire- the only thing keeping her warm enough to survive. Scavenging for scraps of food. Eventually being passed on and off to relatives, never having a home to call her own. Never truly feeling loved by a family….


Upon finally coming to America, she met her first husband. She married him when she was only 17 and had three children by the time she was 27. He was a drunk. He was a cheater. She deserved better. One night he got back a little too late, my Nana kicked him out. Divorced his ass. She was the talk of the town. It was unheard of at that time. What woman with three young children abandons her husband? A STRONG one, that’s who. 


She set goals for herself. She knew she wanted to work at the University. She knew that is where she would meet someone else. And she DID. She worked hard until she got hired. And shortly after, she met my Grampy. The sweetest man to ever walk this earth. Years later they had my Mom. 
Without my Nana’s strength. Without her knowing her self-worth, I would have never existed. Had she not followed her intuition. Had she not trusted her gut, there would be no me. No family. And for that, I am forever grateful. 


I like to think she gave me a little of that strength. I feel it within myself sometimes. It’s why I took Stafford as my pen name. I am so honored. Honored that I was able to grow up with her in my life. Thankful that I had her to teach me how to become a strong woman. I vow to live my life as my Nana did. Never accepting less than I deserve and never being afraid to put myself out there, take a risk, trust my gut and grow. 

To read the original story CLEANING NANA’S HOUSE by KJ Stafford click here.

Clicking the line above will also supply images that go with the story.

Mother Comes To The Rescue

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When a child gets lost in the forest a mother’s wisdom saves the day!

Once upon a time, in a small town located far away from the big cities between rolling hills and lush forests, there lived a young child named Alex. With their adventurous spirit, Alex was always eager to explore the world around them. But one sunny day, their curiosity led them into a problematic situation.

Alex ventured into the woods near their home on a warm summer afternoon. The air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, and the sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting a dappled pattern on the forest floor. With a sense of excitement bubbling inside them, they wandered deeper and deeper into the dense foliage, chasing after the fluttering wings of butterflies and the rustling of unseen creatures.

As the hours passed, Alex became utterly lost in the enchanting beauty of the forest. But as the sun began to dip below the horizon, panic started to set in. They realized they had strayed too far from home and had no idea which direction to go.

Frightened and alone, Alex’s heart raced in their chest. They called for help, their voice echoing through the trees. But there was no response, just the eerie silence of the forest at dusk. Tears welled up in their eyes as they sank to the ground, feeling a mix of hopelessness and fear.

Meanwhile, in the town, Sarah’s worry had transformed into a fierce determination. When her child didn’t return home at their usual time, she didn’t hesitate. She rallied a group of neighbors and friends, her unwavering love for Alex fueling their efforts.

With flashlights and determination in their hearts, they combed through the woods, calling out Alex’s name. Hours passed with no sign of the lost child, and fear gnawed at Sarah’s heart. Her worry turned into a desperate ache, her determination fueling her every step.

Just as she was beginning to lose hope, Sarah heard a faint cry in the distance. With renewed energy, she followed the sound, pushing through the underbrush until she stumbled upon a clearing where Alex sat, trembling and exhausted.

Relief washed over Sarah like a tidal wave as she rushed to her child’s side, her heart bursting with joy. Tears of happiness streamed down her cheeks as she whispered words of comfort and love, her voice a soothing balm to Alex’s trembling form.

Wrapped in their mother’s arms, Alex felt safe and protected, knowing that no matter their adventures, their mother would always be there to guide them home. And on that fateful day, Sarah’s unwavering love and determination saved Alex’s life, proving that a mother’s love knows no bounds. In the aftermath, they both learned the importance of staying close and the strength of their bond.

A MOTHER’S DAY REUNION

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In a secluded cabin, nestled far from the clamor of the town, lived a gentle old soul, known to few but revered by those who understood her quiet strength. Her days were marked by solitude, yet she celebrated holidays and cherished moments as if surrounded by a bustling family. Her resilience was legendary, a testament to the indomitable spirit that dwelled within her.

Despite her solitude, the townsfolk viewed her with a mixture of curiosity and bemusement, dismissing her as a bit eccentric but harmless nonetheless. It wasn’t until a bashful young boy crossed paths with her that her story began to unfold.

In hushed tones, she confided in the boy, recounting a past filled with love, loss, and unspoken. She spoke of a time when her life brimmed with joy, her husband and sons by her side, their laughter echoing through the valley. But the ravages of war tore her family asunder, leaving her to weather the storms of sorrow alone.

With tears glistening in her eyes, she revealed the heart-wrenching fate of each beloved member lost to the cruel whims of fate. Her husband, called to duty in the Great War, her two sons spirited away by the tempest of World War II, and finally, her youngest, whose untimely demise on a desolate road robbed her of closure.

As the boy listened, his heart heavy with empathy, he dared to pose a question that lingered unspoken in the air. What if there was another, a grandson perhaps, who carried the legacy of her lost kin?

The old lady’s incredulous gaze met his, disbelief mingling with hope in her weary eyes. And then, like a beacon in the darkness, came the revelation – the grandson, lost to her for decades, now stood before her, a living link to the family she had mourned for so long.

With trembling hands and a heart brimming with emotion, she embraced the truth that had eluded her for years. In that moment, amidst tears of joy and disbelief, the lonely cabin was transformed into a haven of love and reunion.

As the boy revealed his identity, a grandson born from the ashes of tragedy and hope, the old lady’s heart swelled with a newfound sense of belonging. For in him, she found not just a descendant, but a beacon of love and remembrance, a testament to the enduring bonds of family.

And so, on that hallowed Mother’s Day, amidst the whispers of the past and the promise of the future, the little old lady found solace in the embrace of her newfound kin, her lost loved ones forever immortalized in the cherished memories they had left behind.

She told the boy the story of the little old lady who lived in a secluded cabin far from the bustling road. Few in the town knew she had her people, for she seemed self-sufficient. She would celebrate alone on holidays and special occasions, just as if she had a house full of family. Her resilience was a sight to behold, a testament to the strength of her spirit. 

The townspeople thought she was a bit looney. But she didn’t bother a soul, so they let her be. One day, a shy young boy befriended the lady, and they began to talk. The lady told the boy about a world before when she had a husband and three sons. Her husband had brought her to the valley and began a farm here; she had helped toil the soil. Soon, she gave birth to a son, then another, and by year six, there would be a third son on the farm. Their happiness halted when the Government called the husband away to fight in World War I; she said she got letters from him up until the day she didn’t. 

“He got killed somewhere over there. They never told me exactly where just in France on a battlefield.

The boys took care of the farming and made a good go of it, helping take care of the livestock and bringing income in that would pay for living expenses and build savings for the family, the little old lady explained to the boy. Then, when everything was going so well again, the Government called again and took two of my boys; it was World War II. They were gung-ho to go over there, promising me they would be back and bring a wife with them. Kidding me, they were going to share the wife. Sadly, I got the news on the same day they both died. Iwo Jima, why did they send them both into there? Didn’t they know? Didn’t someone care? I guess not!”  

–– the little old lady said, still wiping tears away after all this time.

The young boy wondered why she was alone and thought maybe the last son had grown up and gone away and never returned. He didn’t want to ask. But the little old lady continued talking. 

“My last son, the last one I had to hold on to, was working the farm and doing well, and I thought maybe he would be what we had dreamed of making this place be. But he was driving home from town and saw a young couple who appeared to have broken down on the side of the road. They were miles away from anyone, and if he didn’t stop, they could have died out there alone, so he stopped to help. As he was giving them a hand, they shot and robbed him, taking a One Dollar bill from his wallet, one that he carried for good luck, and a buckeye that he kept in his left pocket. Then, he rolled him over in a ditch like trash and took off in both cars.”

The young boy had tears in his eyes, thinking of the little old lady’s pain. She continued her story, ––– 

“He never came home. I knew something was wrong. I called the sheriff, and he came out and said he didn’t come home. Days later, they found his car in another state. A man on a tractor discovered his body about a month later. They said it was his. I never got to see him. Not one of my men got a decent send-off because of the way they died. I don’t know if I deserve one, either. I have stayed here, hoping that maybe everything they told me was wrong. And maybe someday, my husband and boys would come back to me. But no one has ever shown up.”

The young man quietly asked the little old lady, ‘ What if a grandson showed up? ‘ The little old lady, stunned, asked, ‘What you say?’ The young man said, ‘What if a grandson appeared instead?’ 

The little old lady replied, “I’d be damned because not one of my boys had been with a woman!” 

The young man told the little old lady, “Well, one of them had, and you just found out about it now! One of your boys in the war that disappeared also had just married his sweetheart way ‘over there.’ She happened to be carrying his child when he had to go to Iwo Jima and got killed. And, he was going to call and tell you that if it weren’t for that battle getting him killed, you would have known about being a grandmother more than 20 years ago. After my mother died, I found pictures and details about my dad and where he is from and tracked him to you, so I know now that you are my family.

With a tear rolling down her cheek, the little old lady quietly says ––– 

“Well, one of them found a way to return on Mother’s Day.”