My mom made the trek to Rexburg for Mother’s Week that year, determined to be there with me. But getting to me wasn’t exactly smooth sailing.
She was carpooling with the mother of one of my friends—except her companion was five hours late. Already weary from the delay, my mom set out late into the night, irritated and low on patience. Somewhere along a long, empty stretch of Montana highway near Anaconda, her gas light flickered on. But instead of stopping early, she pushed the limit, thinking she could make it to the next town.
She didn’t. She ended up stranded in the middle of the night, the tank nearly dry, praying for a miracle.
And she got one.
A kind police officer spotted her and, without hesitation, escorted her to a tiny town where the gas station was closed. He called the station owner personally, received permission to unlock the pumps, and helped my mom fill up. She paid him in cash, and he left it on the counter with a note for the owner to find the next morning. Then he shut everything back down and sent her safely on her way. That moment—an act of small-town kindness and divine timing—has stayed with both of us ever since.
By the time Mom reached me in Rexburg, after her 8-hour drive, she was exhausted. It was nearly 3:00 am instead of 10:00 pm the night before, like I had expected. Remember, this was the days before cell phones. I was worried sick until at midnight she stopped for a snack and called me from a pay phone to let me know where she was and an updated time of when to expect her.
She came to classes with me, laughed alongside my roommates, and joined in the special campus events planned for moms and daughters. We took a road trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where we stepped into one of those Old Time Photo parlors just off the main street. Dressed in ruffled hats, corseted gowns, and holding delicate fans, we posed in front of a rustic wooden wall labeled Trail Dust Saloon, a bottle of whiskey and scattered poker cards completing the tableau. The result is one of my favorite photos of my mom and I. Both of us are glowing from a week well-spent. It perfectly captured that moment in time: when life was simple, our hearts were full, and we were together.
Before we left the little Western town, I bought a delicate glass-blown oil lamp. It was something completely impractical for a college apartment but too beautiful to leave behind. I still have it. This treasure has survived countless moves, an entire decade of purging and downsizing during our travel years, and more life changes than I can count. Somehow, I’ve never broken it. And I think that’s because, like the memory of that week, some things are just meant to last.
The following year, my mom wasn’t able to come for Mother’s Week. Life had other plans. But I wasn’t left alone. A dear friend stepped in and became my “stand-in mom” for the week, reminding me that love and connection don’t always have to come from the people we expect—sometimes, they show up exactly when and how we need them most.
Looking back, I realize Mother’s Week wasn’t just about events and shared stories. It was about presence. About showing up, even if it means running on empty. About laughter in silly costumes and late-night gas station rescues. About the kind of quiet devotion that crosses miles just to sit beside you in your tiny college apartment.
So many years later, I still treasure that photograph, that oil lamp, and that week as one of the purest gifts my mother ever gave me: her time, her heart, and her willingness to be part of my world—even when getting there nearly ran her out of gas.
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