My mom embarrassed me years ago when she called our small town post office and complained about slow package delivery. I gave the eulogy at mom ’ s memorial service, and I told the mortifying story at the chapel. Respectful laughter filled the room. However, embarrassment doesn ’ t bother you when you ’ re dead in the grave and maybe that ’ s the lesson here today. Mom loved to send packages to me in Arizona. She often mailed pencils, recipe clippings, bars of soap, cereal, odds and ends that were meaningful to her. Mom never understood that her mailings to a hick town in the west take a heck of a lot longer than it does in Chicago. I got umpteen phone calls from her before any shipment arrived and she would ask impatiently: “ Did you get my package yet? ” It was about six years ago when retrieving my mail, Toni, my favorite clerk shouted to me across the room from the front desk, “Your mother called me yesterday. She ’ s had enough of our delays and compl