In December, I always hear the same complaint from Mom: “You never tell me what you want for Christmas!” It’s true: I can never think of what to ask for, because I can’t think of a greater gift than what she has already given me.

When we four kids were all under 8 years old, we would go with Mom to get Dad from work. Typical children, we were full of endless energy; confining us into such a small place as a car was difficult. To make matters worse, after we arrived at Dad’s work, we would often have to wait in the car – sometimes for hours – while he finished up. This could have easily turned into a time we all learned to dread, but that was not so. Instead, Mom made a game out of it. When a person walked out of the building, she would say: “Is that Dad?” We would all giggle with delight and explain to her why that person was not Dad (“It’s a lady!”, “That man has gray hair!”, etc). We played this game until Dad would finally appear. At an early age, we were taught that we didn’t need exciting toys or places to have a good time; we could have a fantastic time simply by being together, piled in a small car.

Once, when I was a teenager, I had been emotionally invested in schoolwork – too invested. I worked hard all semester, and by the end of the year, I was exhausted. One morning, Mom knew something was wrong. She gave me a hug, and I began sobbing; I told her about my difficult semester. She then told me something I won’t forget: “It is important to work hard, but it is equally important to take time to enjoy the pleasures life brings. What is the point in a life spent working if we do not take time to enjoy the benefits of our labor?” From then on, I found a better balance between work and play.

In 2007, my family was awoken by firetrucks driving through our neighborhood, telling us to evacuate: a wildfire was out of control, destroying homes down our street. We barely had time to grab anything before we fled. We spent several hours experiencing stress that comes from not knowing whether all of your possessions are gone. Eventually we found a TV showing homes, near ours, burning. Mom, however, was not panicked. She explained: “Anything we lose in that house, we can get again. The few things we have with us – our family, our pictures – are all that really matter.”

Thanks to Mom, the main focus of our lives has never been working till we drop, having more toys than the other guy, or the destination. Our lives have been focused on making the most of whatever situation we are in, enjoying our time with people we love, and finding joy in the journey. She couldn’t have given us a greater gift.