On a dreary winter day several years ago a photograph caught my eye in the Napa Valley Register. The familiar tiles of a Mah-Jongg set filled the frame and the caption announced a pending "Day of Mah-Jongg" fundraiser for the Napa Valley Symphony. Warmth immediately blanketed the bleak afternoon.

My mom had passed away a few years earlier and I made a silent vow at that time to learn the game of Mah-Jongg, which she so loved to play. When I saw the photograph in the newspaper that day, immediately my mind recaptured the sounds of clicking as the tiles would be stirred vigorously. I recollected phrases: "one crack, east wind, bird bam"; they were familiar to me, yet without relevance. Jotting down the contact phone number in the featured article, I decided to call for more information about this event.

A snapshot of the days when my mom would prepare for the girls to gather for their weekly game of Mah-Jongg crept into my consciousness. With family all fed and ushered into nightly routines, Dottie, Joan and Barbara would emerge from their homes to walk over for the highly anticipated assembly in my mom's kitchen. Early in the day, my mom would have taken time to select a coffee cake at the local Jewish bakery and get some small bowls of nuts or candies readied. The coffee would be brewing on the stove, and the light-hearted conversation would begin after happy greetings. Mah-Jongg was a welcome respite for each of them. I would perch until directed to get off to bed. Hours would fly by with the sounds of the game, laughter, and the scent of the second pot of coffee filling echoed until about midnight. The sturdy black case would then be lifted onto the table, and the ivory tiles would be stacked neatly before the women departed. Play would resume in a week.

In summer months, the women would not only play once a week in the evenings, but their options for day time games were wide open at the local country club. Across the back of the grassy area and along a fence, card tables were set up underneath weeping willow trees for anyone to join a game daily. Women from the local temple brought their cases and often there would even be a wait for a spot at a table, though they numbered at about a dozen. My mom, a non-swimmer, was always attired in a fashionable bathing suit and wore full make-up to join us at the pool. Her neatly coiffed hair would never see the inside of a swim cap. The amusing thing, in retrospect, is that all the other women also showed up similarly prepared with their children. We would take our swim lessons, practice jumping off the high dive, and get a bit of sunburn routinely. Occasionally, one of us would dart over to the Mah-Jongg tables for a wax-paper wrapped sandwich from the cooler, or find the courage to plead for a dime to purchase a Popsicle at the snack bar on site. Mah-Jongg was consuming entertainment for the women under the willow trees. Only a lifeguard's whistle could break their concentration.

I called the number to sign up for the "Day of Mah-Jongg". "Do you play?" was the obvious first question from the other end of the line. That was unanticipated; I had never learned to play. I felt like Peter Sellers in the movie "Being There": I liked to watch. During that call I agreed to join a group that would be forming to learn to play the game of Mah-Jongg so that I could participate in the fundraiser the following January.

The small group met for several weeks and when training was complete we agreed to continue to meet weekly. Each of us brought enthusiasm and encouragement to the card table; our brand new tile sets, direct from Chinatown in San Francisco, were broken in quickly. When I grabbed my clutch, my quarters, my glasses and the official game card to race off to play Mah-Jongg, I was filled with a deep joy. I have fulfilled my silent vow.

In the past few weeks, though, a curious thought has penetrated this contentment to deepen my sense of joy. I have become more sentimental with Mother's Day approaching; stirring tiles, casting discards, calling distinct names during play rouses emotion again. As I passed for my first right I noticed that my friend bears the silky, olive complexion that my mom had. Having contemplated the new options, I sent three tiles over for my first across to the friend opposite me. I observed that her delicate features and petite frame bore an uncanny resemblance to my mother's appearance. Feeling overly dramatic about this internal field trip, I buckled down for the subsequent trade in the Charleston, to my left. Departing momentarily from the train of sentimental thought, I recognized that the similarities of the two friends at the table were just wonderful reminders of my mom. For a moment, I silenced the sentimentality; as I reordered my rack and adjusted for play, my mind quickened to one last note. My friend to the left, lacking a physical resemblance to my mom, unknowingly yielded a punctuating accent. Though called by a nickname, her true name is my own mother's -- Dolores. Swallowing hard, play continued. Mah-Jongg became in that day a divine providence for me.

How is it that time and a silent vow brought together this gift in my life? This Mother's Day, I just can't help but believe that there are others who have tidy pieces of joys that will knit together a picture for their hearts as well. These must be what "tender mercies" are. A loving ribbon has been wrapped around playing this game for me since the day I saw the photograph of the artfully arranged Asian tiles in the newspaper. It ties together my mother's joy in playing the game of Mah-Jongg, sharing that joy gratefully with those in our vital quartet, and the hope that the tradition will bring joy to my own girls in years to come. My prayer this Mother's Day is that others who may be missing their moms find that there is a ribbon for their own hearts right before their eyes, too. And for those who have their moms with them, may they use their arms as ribbons to joyfully embrace the treasures that remain within reach.