No one truly knows his name or identity.
All they know is what he does.
It all started when he himself was just a boy of twelve.
I'd like to say I knew him well but I never was quite sure. He was a boy of complexity but yet simplicity. The only ones who knew his trust well were himself, his mother, and Him.
On an early Sunday morning in autumn, dew still sprayed across the dying green grass, the boy knelt at the side of his mother's bed. His warm gentle hands held her withering, frail fingers. The doctor had left earlier that morning with nothing more for him to do.
The boy's mother lifted her right hand to her mouth and coughed. She moved the cloth away and her eyes fell upon the spots of blood that colored the white cotton.
"My dear son," she said gently and weak, "There is nothing left for me in this life. I've lived through many sorrows and griefs. And then I was sent you. My most valuable possession."
The boy smiled softly, tears welling in his eyes.
"Now my boy, you must listen to my words."
He nodded, awaiting her next syllables.
"The strongest act of love and bravery in this world is generosity. Generosity must be fearless because to give willingly is a mighty vulnerable thing to do. All I ask of you is to give all that you have, even when you have nothing left at all. Travel and comb the world if you must. But please, give. To anyone. Rich, poor, young, old. Just give. Remember what J. R. R. Tolkien said: 'Not all who wander are lost.' So, my boy, even though at times, it may feel like you are wandering, trust that God will guide you to do what is good and righteous. This is my last wish. Will you fulfill my final wish, my love?"
The boy looked upon his mother's hands which were gently grasping his. He raised his head and his light green eyes met his mother's deep blue ones.
"Yes mother," he said quietly, "I will."
His mother then gave him a weak smile.
"Good. I love you, my son." she said tenderly.
"I love you too, mother." the boy whispered.
With those words, his mother took her final breath.
From that day on, the boy would never forget his mother's words. He would fulfill her final wish. Even until the end.
YOU ARE READING
Not All Who Wander Are Lost
General Fiction"Not all who wander are lost." - J. R. R Tolkien Chester Harding is a eighteen year old with a serious heart condition. But that does not stop his pure determination to live life to the fullest. When he notices on e...
