December 16, 1845
The woman sat at a writing desk, her pen moving swiftly across a sheet of paper. Words poured from her heart to her hands, and as she wrote, her memories and deepest thoughts took form upon the paper.
My dearest son,
Has it truly been five and thirty years since I took you into my home? Each detail of that precious day is ingrained forever in my memory. I remember the cold; I remember seeing you there, alone, shivering and bedraggled. But, above all, I recall the despair.
I say despair, for I have no other word to describe the supreme sorrow that so engulfed me. It consumed me, snuffing out any light of hope that might have entered my life. But then the Lord sent me you - a child, lost and alone. It was only in caring for you that I found healing for my own heart.
How strange, that I should be so happy only when thinking so little of my own happiness! But such is the nature of life. True joy comes not from ourselves, nor even from those we love. I have found that it is the Lord, and Him alone, who breaks the chains that hold our hearts so fast, and who turns our deepest mourning into dancing.
You have turned this day, once wrought with pain, into a day of joyful remembrance, and I thank you. I shall soon be reunited with my husband - and if I do not see you until then, I remain -
Mother
YOU ARE READING
Healed
Короткий рассказ"Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, she laid the roses she held down upon the grave. The fresh flowers lay amidst lifeless, wilted petals - all that remained of her previous visits to the cemetery. Tears sparkled on her lashes as she spoke. "H...
