The advice was brief--a mere three words--but its power has punctuated my entire life:

"Be discreet, dear."

Those words from my mother were the mantra of my teenhood. Like a pastor who sends his flock to "go in peace," my mother often sent me out the door with those words, usually whispered, donging in my thoughts like belfry bells. There was no doubt as to the import of their meaning. If leaving to study at a friend's house, I knew to avoid gossip. If departing on a date with my steady boyfriend, I knew to behave prudently.

And how I writhed under such lofty expectations! "Be discreet, dear" was a mandate, a grand command, an imperative form of the verb "to be." I was, in no uncertain terms, to "be" discreet. The message was as clear as "Finish your chores." The word "dear" seemed ancillary--less a term of endearment than a warning finger waved in my face.

As a teenager, I chafed under this yoke. I was gregarious by nature, buoyed by adventure. I wanted to whirl through those youthful years, to amuse with sparkling wit, to radiate in popularity. To bow to "discretion" restrained me. In my more cynical moments I heard this advice as self-serving. Wasn't Mother really saying, "Don't embarrass me in front of my book club"?

Through the years, however, I have discovered the brilliance of her advice--especially the choice of the word "discreet." Most mothers admonish their daughters to "be careful" or "be good." Mine, however, offered a far richer image, and her reverence for discretion has molded my maturation as an adult. To be "discreet" means to consider thoughtfully my speech and habits, to aim at self-control, to refrain from impulses that might cause pain to others. In the process of becoming a "discreet" adult, I have grown into a compassionate listener, sensitive to the feelings of others and aware of the symmetry of my words and actions. Similarly, I have learned to admire discretion in others.

My two sisters do not recall these cherished words. I'm convinced our mother reserved them for me. I was, after all, the impetuous daughter. I am grateful for Mother's maternal instincts in assessing my impulsive nature. Her advice, I now see clearly, was neither punitive nor self-serving. It was a perfect gift from mother to daughter in the most loving of legacies.

Today, I find myself surrounded by three young granddaughters. I watch them crawl and tumble, awkward in gait and language, too young yet to understand cautious words from long ago. In future years, however, I will offer them golden apples from their great-grandmother. "Be discreet, dear," I will whisper in their ears, and I will press my cheek against theirs as I hug each one closely.

My prayer is that, with these tender yet powerful words of wisdom, they will think carefully before they act, choose prudent words and habits, and march through their lives with discipline and grace.

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