Dearest Mother

                                    

                                          
Coffee Community on Wattpad. Contest.
The Prompt.
You invite your mother or someone who is like a mother to you for coffee. Your plan when you meet them is to give them a letter you've wanted to deliver to them but could never find the right time, until now...
Story.
Dearest Mother.
©Leon1692, September, 2023
The sky was painted a pleasant blue, the sun streaked the earth with its golden rays, and the birds had their fair share of rainbow colors with twittering voices to match. I, on the other hand, was clean for a change. My hair shone after a serious wash with shampoo, my clothes smelled like washing powder, my skin smells like soap, and my mouth still tastes like toothpaste. What a wonderful feeling! 
But it wasn't always that way. For close to three years I had lived a dissolute life, indulging in every sort of vice under the sun but that too came to an end. And that was due to the unwavering belief in miracles of the woman sitting at the coffee table waiting for me.
I have been the source of much of her pain and grief, and my heart ached with guilt and shame as I stood outside the Steaming Cup of Coffee shop, looking at the hunched figure, the lines of suffering furrowing her forehead, her wrinkled hands, and decent but threadbare clothes. All that was caused by my actions, but I'm here to make amends.
I had written her a letter, but after much deliberation, I had decided not to post it, but hand deliver it myself. To that end, I called her up and made this appointment.
Letter in hand I entered the shop and approached her table. At first, she did not recognize me, but after a second glance she rose from the table, and, through a mist of tears, outstretched hands, and a smile lighting up her face she whispered, "my son-"
We embraced, and I felt the warmth of my mother's love hugging me tightly. We finally dislodged and took our seats. She took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
"Mother, there are things I wanted to tell you, but instead of saying it, I wrote you a letter. I would like you to read it now please while I order some coffee.
I handed her the letter, and with trembling hands, she unfolded it and read as follows.
Dearest mother,
I haven't always been the best of sons. No, scrap that. I have been the worst of sons, and I thank a merciful God every day for a mother like you. Not every young man is as fortunate as I am, and it is only through your prayers and His grace that I'm still alive.
I have done things in my life that would make the angels blush, but those days are behind me, for good.
One Wednesday morning I crept, still dirty, drunk, and disorderly out of a dark hole, and had to blink a few times to acclimatize my eyes to the stinging sun. I was humming a popular tune as I stumbled along. 
When I was opposite the cathedral doors, the organist struck the opening chords of How Great Thou Art. I became rooted to the spot. It was your favorite hymn, and I always heard you singing it while busy with the household chores. The chords were deep and resonant and flowed, as rapt as raised arms, through their pipes, past the cathedral spires, and on to heaven. The choir joined in, and together they created a spiritual harmony that pulled me up the stairs, through the open doors, and into the cool sanctuary where one can find forgiveness, peace, and new joy.
I stood in the aisle while every one of my sins was streamed live in front of my eyes. 
I saw you kneeling, night after night, in front of your bed, praying earnestly, asking God to perform a miracle in my life. The more you prayed, the more reckless I became. I was never satisfied. The more you gave, the more I demanded, and when you had no money to give, I started stealing household items to sell to pay for my pleasure. You never raised your voice against me. You kept on praying.
At the age of seventeen, I left the house, fell in with a bad crowd, and ended up in jail. 
You never gave up, and neither did God.
While standing in the cathedral, I looked up at the ceiling and my eyes caught an image of Christ depicted in a stained glass window, nailed to the cross for my sins. The sun was streaming through his delicate body, his crown of thorns, and the blood from the palms of his hands and feet. 
I looked down to the floor and a spot of blood rested at my feet. I fell to my knees crying uncontrollably while whispering, "forgive me, God, forgive me, mother."
The organist and choir kept on practicing for Sunday service.
I shed my last tear, and despite my outward appearance, I felt clean on the inside.
I felt forgiven.
When I rose to go I found the resident priest standing over me. With a benevolent smile, he stretched out his hand and helped me to my feet. He took me to his office, and after a lengthy chat, he put me in contact with a social worker who organized shelter, food, and a job for me.
I couldn't see you until I was ready. I'm ready now.
Of all the people in the world, you mother, with your unselfish love and faith in God is the one most responsible for the man I am today.
I have never said it before, but starting today I will say it as often as possible.
I love you, mother.
Your loving son,
Leo Alexander.
~•~
A tear rolled down her cheek and fell on the word love. It stained the word and muddled the letters, but a mother's steadfast love, built on the Rock of Gibraltar will never falter.
The End.
~•~
Thank you for reading, commenting and voting. I appreciate it.