Recently, we started talking at home about the meaning of confession, about how a person should feel when preparing for repentance, which means remission of sins for him. And then I remembered one incident from my now distant childhood.
Then, in the late forties, our family lived in a small village near Moscow. The time was hungry, and the only help was the gardens, where adults worked hard and hard.
Once, at the beginning of summer, I went to the neighboring site to the children I knew. They had a house for two families, and the owner of the second half, living in the city, had not yet moved for the summer, but came to his dacha on weekends. In a word, when I appeared there, having played enough, my friends suggested: “Let’s go to the Rozentsevs’ garden. Such delicious onions grew there!”
After a moment’s hesitation, I went with the whole company to other people’s beds, where we (without trampling or spoiling anything – no one allowed themselves to) ate plenty of fresh, appetizing green onions.
I ran home very cheerful, having already forgotten about this act of mine. But mom immediately felt something was wrong: “Why do you smell like onions?” I frankly confessed that I was picking onions in Uncle Seryozha’s garden. This is where it all started. Mom looked very sternly and resolutely said: “You can’t take someone else’s without asking. Uncle Seryozha will arrive on Sunday, you yourself will tell him about what you did.” There was no doubt that this was not a joke and would have to be told.
Mom knew how to be very firm and always remembered what she said.
The week was long and painful. I thought with horror that I would have to explain everything and confess my ugly act to a good, but still a stranger. If only I could turn everything back and fix it!
But Sunday was fast approaching. And now, on our veranda, a kind, friendly, unsuspecting Sergey Nikolayevich, who recently arrived and ran “at the light” is sitting. He tells something very funny, and I, fading from shame and fear, begin to hope that maybe it will cost. But I hear my mother’s voice: “Come here. You should have told Uncle Seryozha something. Speak…”
I will always remember this moment: how my heart sank and how, closing my eyes, I confessed everything. And I still remember the arms around me and the gentle grumbling: “But what’s the trouble? I ate and I’m healthy. You can always come and vomit. What you want.” I was forgiven and understood that Uncle Seryozha was generously trying to support me. How grateful I was to him then! And now with the warmest feeling I remember this man …
Actually, this is where my story ends. It is worth adding only that after this “vaccination” I never had a desire to “feast on someone else’s garden.” Fate and the people who love me taught me an invaluable lesson.