A grateful son didn't know he was seeing his mother for the last time. Bashny.Net

How many poems, songs, films and paintings were dedicated to mothers! And no matter how hard you try, none of them can describe how big it is. motherly love. Every time we get touching stories about mom, we immediately want to share the find with you. Today's history is no exception. We want to remind you again of the most important person in the life of each of us!



The Power of Motherly Love We recently stumbled upon a lively story by Leonid Garkotin on Facebook. The beauty of the syllable and the depth of the author’s thoughts amazed us so much that we immediately decided to share this work with you. Let's talk about something important!



You're standing by the window, little one, wearing a quilted old sleeveless. On top of it is tied the same old, clean, colorful apron. You look at me with a disturbing and loving look. I look around, waving your hand with a smile, and you baptize me and say something. Perhaps you are blessing or whispering a prayer. I go to Moscow with a light heart, having stayed with you for six whole days.

I visited friends, relatives, and in the rest of the time listened to your stories and, often without listening, again in a hurry. You did not murmur, but, only after a habitual sigh, as in childhood, spoke in a gentle and kind voice:
- Slowly walk. Take your time, but look around, there are so many cars.



And I waited patiently, many times heating the cooling kettle, when I came back, I would sit across the street and tell you where I was, who I met and what I saw. And I would come and sit down and tell you everything. And you listened, asking questions, sometimes funny and unexpected, but very important to you. I looked at your wrinkles, at your glasses with thick glass, at your strained dry hands and admired. I thought to myself, “What a joy to have a mother.” And I tried to imagine you as young and cheerful and fervent, as I was not lucky to see you.

You gave birth to me when I was 44. Modern doctors would have seized on such recklessness, but in those years no one was surprised. Born, thank God! He'll grow up with everyone. And I grew up weak, sickly, but sincerely loved by the youngest child in the family. You were always there! Kind, sweet, dear, understanding and always forgiving mother.

You didn't seem strong to me and you weren't. But I saw that people came to you with their sorrows and sorrows. You could and could comfort, support and give them hope. Your strength was in your kindness and firm adherence to the rule that your mother taught you: “Take no evil, forgive and help.”



Even in bitter moments, you were happy. My family, my great love for my husband and for us children. You didn't educate us, you never lectured us. You just loved us all. And we, even as adults, felt that your love preserves and protects us, protects and guides us through life, and does not allow us to stray from the true path.

In difficult moments, you could be determined. You have endured grievances and injustices in a steadfast and Christian way. You loved everyone, always helped everyone and always forgave everyone. How you looked after our sick dad! Carefully, with love and with gratitude. You 2 years with your love prolonged his life, not for a moment leaving him out of sight, anticipating all his desires.



You managed to make it so that after living together for 45 years, you never had a fight. To our astonished questions, you answered simply and seriously, “How can I fight him if I love him?”

On the day of your 80th birthday, all your children, grandchildren, relatives and friends gathered. I asked you:
- Mother, is life long or short?
And without hesitation, you said,
- Like a moment, very fast. And I thank God that I remember everything, every piece and segment, both difficult and joyful. There were few things that were difficult: God always sent someone to help. Pray every day for your children and they will be fine. I ask for the Lord’s blessings on each of you for the day and for the night to come.



In my memory you still stand by the window, little, in a quilted old sleeveless, in an old clean, colorful apron, tied with a thin woolen gray handkerchief, anxiously and lovingly look after me, covering my way with a cross and blessing me on the road. When I turn around, I smile at you, wave my hand and think:
- What a joy to have you, my kind, sweet and wise mother.
I'm sorry, honey, I didn't know I'd never see you again.

What is the power of motherly love for you? What thought did this story give you?