One Day You Will Come

Boris slid behind the wheel of his new BMW, its black leather interior still reeking of factory paint, and clapped his hands with pleasure.

"Here it is, America! With unlimited possibilities!"

A smug smile blazed across his face: a few successful deals—and there she was, his beauty! At this pace, he could achieve much and be well-established in life.

"Dirty money, so what!" he snorted. "My ancestors are so backward! You must forge money while you can, and enjoy life!"

He inserted the key into the ignition when someone tapped on the window. Their neighbor stood nearby.

"Another backward one," he thought irritably, pressing the button with puffing pride.

The glass lowered slowly, allowing a sunbeam and the neighbor's scrutinizing gaze to rest upon his face.

"Nice thing, Boris Borisovich, congratulations," he tapped his fingers on the roof and continued, "but the price is decent too! Where'd the money come from?"

"Fortune, Uncle Vanya, fortune!"

Boris shifted uncomfortably in his seat and hid his eyes, as if the neighbor might read instructions there for easy money acquisition.

"Listen, son," Uncle Vanya said in a didactic tone, "don't dishonor your late father's memory. And don't cause your mother unnecessary suffering—her health is weak; don't shorten her life."

Discontent grew in the boy's soul. He hated being reminded of his father, disliked that he must constantly remember his mother and her frail health. He'd had enough of having to support the household, since his mother's meager pension covered only trifles. On top of everything, they kept teaching him how to live! If this weren't his father's close friend, Boris would have cut him off, but instead he answered with a false smile:

"Alright, Uncle Vanya, I'll always remember that!"

He started the car, making clear the conversation was over.

"Go with God, son!" Uncle Vanya said, shaking his head as he watched him go.

Boris drove off with a flourish, thinking bitterly:

"Why are they so obsessed with their religion! This is forbidden, that's bad, this isn't good for you... But God is loving—He doesn't want me living a miserable life. Besides, I believe He'll give me a moment in my life to change everything."

In his turbulent reasoning, Uncle Vanya's last words echoed softly: "Go with God, son!" Of course, he was always with God—He ruled the whole world. Boris understood this, though he hadn't been to church in ages, though the Bible his father gave him was covered in thick dust, though he couldn't remember when he last spoke to God alone. Nevertheless, his life was with God, Boris constantly thought...

But his mother thought differently...

She often wept and pleaded! She didn't reproach him for sinful living, only constantly said:

"I pray for you, son! I believe that one day you will come, for Jesus awaits you!"

With trembling fingers she wiped her tears, while her son looked away. Oh, how he hated this! Better if she'd cursed him, shouted, waved her fists, slammed the door—but her calm and tears, with their unwavering persistence and faith, truly tormented him. His mother's actions touched his hardened soul in a peculiar way.

He could only drown this pain with drugs or a glass of liquor! Only in that lay his salvation, only that silenced his pangs of conscience, which grew today from the neighbor's words: "Don't dishonor his memory!" What did his father have to do with it? His life was his own, and no one but himself had the right to control it. He must live abundantly, taking everything from life!

Boris stopped near his friend's apartment and, calling him on his mobile, stretched out on the seat anticipating the coming merriment. Today they had cause for celebration—they'd completed a deal without problems, and the money danced in their pockets.

"Hey, Zhorka!" he shouted through the half-open window. "How do you like my car?"

"Cla-a-ass!"

His friend flopped contentedly into the seat and, taking a deep breath, confirmed:

"Class! Let's go—we'll pick up Tanya and Masha too; others will meet us there."

"Plans unchanged?" Boris glanced at him, steering out of the parking lot, and with a loud cry of joy continued, "Lake Tahoe, buddy! Casino, dude!"

Boris gave Zhorka an enthusiastic pat on the shoulder, and he said:

"We worked hard, friend, didn't we? Now we need to have some real fun!"

The fun turned out to be good and loud! No one was stingy with money—it had been earned easily and quickly, so there was plenty of alcohol. Slot machine buttons clicked, tokens cascaded, glasses emptied, pockets emptied. The merriment continued well past midnight, and tired and excited, they gathered to head home.

"Borka, let me drive," Zhorka said, rubbing his hands with pleasure, "let me test your car."

"Great idea—you drank less than I did," the other replied, tossing him the keys.

"Whoa!" Zhorka whistled, catching them in midair.

The girls, giggling, climbed into the back seat and asked:

"No music, please—we're going to sleep."

The car shot forward and raced down the half-empty city streets. Soon it was already winding along a serpentine mountain road. The monotonous engine noise was soothing, and the alcohol was doing its job. Boris yawned tiredly and suggested:

"Listen, maybe we should rest on the shoulder?"

"What?" Zhorka replied. "Just a couple hours—we'll be home."

"Damn!" Boris cursed roughly. "Then keep going!"

He fought sleep for a while, trying to keep up a rambling conversation, but his tongue grew heavy and his eyes drooped. The struggle didn't last long, and soon, cursing again, he said:

"Oh, damn it! I'm dying, I need to sleep."

"Then sleep—I'll drive!" his friend said, patting his shoulder.

Boris settled more comfortably and, gripping the headrest with both hands, closed his eyes. Sweet sleep mixed with the intoxicating warmth of alcohol clouded his consciousness. Soon he was snoring peacefully. Zhorka, humming a vague melody, kept driving. One turn succeeded another, meeting and parting with the lights of rare cars.

Boris awoke to the sharp screech of brakes. Before he could even open his eyes, he felt a violent impact and the grinding of metal. He was thrown sideways and for a moment his consciousness went dark. Coming to in pitch darkness, he heard the desperate cries of people and saw stars flickering in the distant sky.

"Hell!" he gasped convulsively.

At that moment, sharp pain pierced his body, and something creaked beneath him. To this chaos was added the wail of a car alarm. In his consciousness, Zhorka's last words echoed painfully: "You sleep—I'll drive!" Soon a bright searchlight illuminated a pitiful scene: a twisted car and lifeless bodies. His body was seized by fear and pain simultaneously. He realized that the impact had thrown him from the car, and now he lay on a young fir tree bent under his weight.

"Help!" he groaned barely audibly, but his cry for help was lost in the commotion and the approaching wail of ambulance sirens.

Boris saw stretchers being lowered, and the words he heard—"They're all dead!"—pierced his heart. Sharp pain shot through his body when he tried to move. He tried to cry out again, but no one heard him, for darkness hid his location, and any movement caused excruciating pain in every bone and threatened to make him fall. He was so close, but no one saw him, and this filled him with terror.

Overcoming his fear and pain, he cried out desperately and, turning awkwardly, tumbled down with a crack. Pain shot through him, and he lost consciousness again...

Opening his eyes sometime later, he saw white walls and his mother's suffering face around him. A tear rolled down her cheek, and her lips whispered barely audibly:

"My little son!"

At that moment he wanted to sink into oblivion again—he couldn't bear his mother's tears.

"I prayed for you! I asked the Lord for a chance."

A gentle smile flashed across her face, and hope sparkled in her eyes. It was always the same! Every time he stumbled and fell low, rose and fell again miserably, struggled and lost pathetically, his mother believed that one day he would triumph, that one day he would come... It couldn't be otherwise, for she had once dedicated him to God, and so she would hope until her last breath.

Boris returned home several weeks later. He'd recovered, gained strength, but his way of life hadn't changed. What he could control, what survived from his possessions—remained in his hands. His friends, though their numbers had dwindled, awaited his return impatiently; to them he was a lucky man upon whom great hopes rested. He pulled his old bicycle from the shed, pumped up the tires, and looked it over critically. Of course, it couldn't compare to the BMW, but it was still transportation.

"Where are you going, son?" his mother asked cautiously.

"To see friends."

"To the cemetery? To visit their graves, to sit there..."

He glanced at her with light cynicism and said coldly:

"The cemetery is for the dead; my life continues. The living go to the living!"

"But they were your friends," his mother persisted.

"They were," he said, hurrying out the door.

He'd barely turned around when Uncle Vanya suddenly appeared and said instructively, pointing at the bicycle:

"So what's this, Boris Borisovich? Your car—fortune gave it, fortune took it?! Yes, yes, yes!" he added, shaking his head. "Look, son, God prolonged your life; others weren't so lucky. Think about that carefully."

Boris wanted to curse: "And this one too!" but instead he forced a smile and said:

"I'll think about it."

The following year was a year of struggle and searching for him. He wanted to enjoy life, not understanding that the temporary pleasure that came with alcohol and drugs was illusory. He wanted to get rich, hoping for easy gain, not understanding that true riches are acquired differently. He wanted peace and comfort, but got the opposite. Life threw him often onto sharp cliffs, and barely managing to heal one wound, he acquired others—deeper and more painful.

And his mother only watched sadly and each time, seeing him off, said:

"I pray for you, son! I believe that one day you will come."

"Mama, pray that fortune smiles on me," he'd joke, smiling.

His mother understood that he was suffering...

One late night, the police called her.

"Come quickly to the hospital—your son is dying."

And his mother, managing only to whisper a short prayer, rushed off. An entire week the fight for life continued; he had several deep knife wounds, his body covered in cuts and bruises. Yet another gang dispute, yet more suffering...

Coming home from the hospital, Boris slowly recovered; it took him several months to gain strength. His friends at first sent him messages asking about his condition, but the number of messages decreased each day. Only his mother was there tirelessly, not complaining, not giving up, not crying, constantly repeating:

"I pray for you! I believe that one day you will come to Him, who has long awaited you, who has so much for you..."

During his illness, Boris picked up the Bible a few times. The story of Samson somehow struck a chord in his soul, and he pondered it long. He too considered himself strong and clever; he knew how to escape from difficult situations, he often won, though sometimes he lost. Of course, he had no desire to lose like Samson, but his actions were very similar to Samson's.

He was going against God!

He sought happiness in the wrong direction, desired wealth from an unreliable source, wasted time and strength on what could not be profitable. He needed life—abundant life—but he was resorting to an erroneous source.

The stronger he felt in his body, the clearer his plans became. He must take revenge on those who caused him pain and suffering, remove the weak from his path, prove his strength and determination. Only the strong survive, but his actions must be careful and well-planned.

After several months, Boris was again in his old circle of friends. Life continued in the same way, but just as he'd promised himself, Boris didn't let it dizzily overwhelm him so he'd lose his mind. He acted carefully and deliberately. Soon he bought himself an old car and continued working toward his goal.

His horizon was shrouded in the gray dust of played-out reality, but he believed in his own judgment and cunning. One day, driving to meet his friends, he somehow ended up at a cemetery. He decided to find the graves that lay so close to one another... He sat on a bench there. On Tanya and Masha's grave lay fresh flowers, with dewdrops from the recent rain glistening on them like tears.

From the silence and sadness hanging in the air, Boris suddenly shuddered, and at that moment he heard the words:

"You could be here too!"

He glanced around in alarm, but the cemetery was empty at that moment. Not a soul anywhere, but the voice sounded clear and distinct. Boris looked fearfully at Zhorka's grave, and a light tremor ran through his body. His legs grew heavy; in fear he couldn't even move. Before his eyes, like in slow-motion film, scenes from that fatal night played out: the twisted car, his friends' bodies slowly being pulled from the wreckage, and the silent starry sky.

They were dead, but he remained alive!

How?! Why?! How had he become the lucky one who was thrown from the car before the fatal collision that killed his friends? His heart raced, a lump of emotions rose in his throat, and a single tear, burning his hardened cheek, fell on his shirt. So his life continued, so he must live and act! So he must have the abundant life he'd always sought!

He struggled to his feet from the bench and made his way to the car like a trembling shadow, promising himself never to return here.

So a year passed in struggle, suffering, and his mother's tears. His mother didn't complain, only asked and continued to pray, believing that one day her son would understand how dangerous a path he was on, where it led to nowhere. And Boris continued to hope that fortune would one day turn her face toward him, and he could befriend her and live happily. He tried, but nothing worked; he fought, but continued to lose; he lost without understanding the price of what he'd lost. False mirages attracted him, mirages he could never reach.

Seeking, he lost!

One day another attempt at false happiness brought him to the defendant's bench, and he lost his freedom for a long time! This wasn't what he'd aimed for, for from behind bars there was little chance of the desired abundant life. And could you even call life the wretched existence he endured in prison—life? That was mere existence and survival, offering no hope for a better future, a miserable and worthless life, much of it consisting of gray walls, the unbearable stench of human sweat, and the empty faces of the unfortunate like himself.

And ahead lay ten long years!

Yet his mother continued to pray, not giving up, though she'd grown grayer, weaker, and more gaunt. She believed that one day everything would change, that one day he would find true happiness that nothing could prevent, not even the gray prison walls or the empty faces of fellow unfortunates. She continued seeking different ways to remind him of Him in whom true happiness's source exists, who continued to await him.

How many times had he the opportunity to come to Him, yet Boris constantly neglected it! He counted chance successes as enormous achievements, evaluated his losses by false reality's standards, looked at life through a warped reality's prism, saw a beautiful future without recognizing its illusoriness. He lived in clouds, dreamed until all his rainbow dreams were shackled by the grim walls of a small prison cell.

Then life suddenly seemed meaningless and wasted to him! Ten years! By the time he was released, nearly half his conscious life would have passed, and all he'd have behind him would be a prison sentence, nothing more! And how could he survive ten years under such conditions?

In a short time his old dreams lost all meaning, his desires to live and dare were replaced by depression. Boris often recalled that accident night and regretted surviving. He'd lost all interest in life; the spark in his eyes was extinguished by the gray prison walls, and increasingly he was plagued by thoughts of suicide. This was his only way out! He'd lost sleep, focused on one desire: finding a way to end it.

His mother also lost sleep!

Her heart sensed something wrong, and she continued to appeal to God for help and protection. She didn't know the danger, but felt it, and continued, together with other poor and wretched mothers who mourned their lost and erring children, to appeal to Him who does not delay in coming to help, who is always near and ready to answer.

Time passed, and Boris, unable to find the strength, courage, or even the means to end his life, began wondering how to make the days that stretched like a dark chain bearable enough to wait for sunset and greet the new dawn with longing. His time in prison was monotonous and heavy, but his former desire to die suddenly changed to a passionate desire to live. He began exercising intensely, wanting to stay in shape and thereby preserve his health and strength.

One Sunday, going to the gym, he heard singing coming from somewhere. The melody was very familiar, one that returned him to distant childhood years. He slowed his pace and looked questioningly at the prison guard.

"See, someone's still happy here," the guard said with a sneer and added, "they serve God, apparently."

Boris raised his eyebrows in surprise: "Here, in prison, a meeting? Is that possible?" and asked almost casually:

"How often?"

"How often what?" the guard asked, confused.

"How often do they meet?"

"I think once a month—some man comes regularly and brings some young people with him. Don't understand why they do it, but seems there are interested parties. The point? Don't know, I understand sports, this—I don't!"

He spread his hands in surprise and fell silent; it was clear he truly didn't understand. Boris went to the gym, but the melody he'd heard continued in his ears. He wanted to drown it out with strenuous exercise, but his soul's desire was stronger than his body's. Melodies he'd heard before sounded in his mind, and without realizing it, he began humming one of them. The melody accompanied his exercises well, and leaving the gym, Boris suddenly felt an inner satisfaction.

That night he dreamed of childhood, his time with his father and mother, beautiful times in church when he was still so young. He woke with an aching pain about the past—so light and sunny, so beautiful and distant! How long ago was it since he last attended church with his parents? Boris pondered, and his thoughts slowly carried him back to when his father was still alive.

His father had died four years ago; shortly before that, Boris stopped attending church. He began living differently then; like many children of believing parents, he began seeking something better, for here, in this overseas country, were so many unexplored possibilities! What did his parents know from their past life? Very little! But for young people—so many opportunities, such prospects; they could achieve so much!

Boris smiled sadly...

He truly had achieved much! So many bruises and broken ribs! And the amount of losses, including the bitter losses of his friends?! And could you measure the pain of a crippled soul or measure suffering? And the price of freedom he'd lost—how could that be valued, what could measure the years lost in prison? These were truly remarkable achievements!

He suddenly wanted to shout to the whole world, so all who thought as he did could hear: "Stop! Think about what you're spending your time on!" but at that moment the breakfast bell rang. Boris got out of bed and shortly was in the dining hall. A very young man he'd never seen before sat beside him and asked with a heavy English accent:

"You look Russian?"

Boris smiled and answered:

"Then speak Russian."

They talked, and the young man told him he was there for hooliganism and theft.

"Are you a believer?" Boris asked him.

His companion blushed and, shaking his head, said:

"If I were, I wouldn't be here! Though my parents are believers, I..."

He sighed deeply, making a sad grimace on his face. His name was Maxim, and his story was very similar to Boris's. The same desires for easy gain, the same phantom horizons, the same neglect of parents. Boris listened and thought:

"How stupid we are! Did we really think we could achieve success while disregarding truths ancient and true?"

Maxim, as if confirming his reasoning, said:

"What naivety! What undeniable stupidity!" and then added, "Tell me about yourself."

Boris sighed sadly:

"You already did! My story is ninety percent like yours!"

"Does one really need to pay such a price to finally understand!" Maxim said desperately, hanging his head.

His question hung in the air, doing its work in Boris's consciousness. Could he not have stopped earlier, reconsidered, and revalued his life? After all, he'd known better, but did worse! He knew the source of goodness and blessings, but drew drops of temporary pleasure from a viscous swamp; he knew the price paid for it but neglected it, condemning himself to suffering and pain.

A checkered sky, a striped inner world—such was the wretched reality of his life, such was the pitiful end of his searching!

Boris finished breakfast and shuffled like a tired shadow to his cell. Heavy thoughts drilled painfully into his troubled consciousness; an agonizing longing tormented him. That day at lunch, his new friend introduced Boris to several other Russian boys and invited him to an evening gathering.

That evening became a turning point between his foggy past and the slowly opening future. From that evening, he began taking weak steps toward what was firm and stable; from that evening, he began seeking the light that could truly illuminate his life; from that evening, he began seeking happiness that he had long and pointlessly neglected. Although his life continued rotating in a damp cell reeking of human sweat and anguish, it, his life, was beginning to acquire meaning.

Though the pain of lost days and foolish deeds continued unbearably to drill his soul, it mixed with trembling hope. One day he would leave here, to leave behind forever the bondage into which he'd drawn himself, surrendering to phantom dreams. After all, how much suffering had he brought on himself and his poor mother, who now was his only concern: he prayed for her health, asked God for mercy for her, wanted to live with her longer and show her what a true son should be.

Each time he impatiently awaited visits from friends from the free world! That melody he'd once heard in passing became so dear to him; what he'd so long neglected, he now yearned to hear; what he'd once considered outdated and meaningless suddenly acquired its true significance. Within prison walls, he finally understood that his parents were neither backward nor ignorant—they'd simply remained faithful to simple truths, they'd viewed life through the prism of reality and reason. Here he finally understood so much, but some things were no longer possible to change.

And his mother continued to pray... She knew how difficult and hard it was for him there; she feared he'd break under prison life's weight; she worried he wouldn't survive the entire sentence, that he'd do something foolish. And how she wished he'd come home soon, so she could meet him on the outside, sit with him at the kitchen table with a bowl of borscht or a cup of tea. How long ago was that? She felt so alone, yet not helpless; she continued to believe and hope for better times.

Three years passed...

On that day, the church celebrated Mother's Day. She was a mother, but that day no one congratulated her; for several years now, no one had congratulated her, except in church where each mother would be given a red rose as a sign of love and respect. There was a time when her son would bring her a beautiful bouquet of flowers and, despite the pain he caused her, would tell her of his love on that day. Simply, with masculine restraint, but sincerely, and her eyes would always fill with tears.

That day too she wiped away a hot tear and listened to the speaker.

"I want to congratulate all mothers on this holiday!" he said. "What would we do without you, our dear ones! Your labor is never valued, your love can never be measured, your care is never fully understood. We congratulate you, dear ones!"

Then he unfolded a piece of paper and continued:

"I have a special letter for one mother..."

And he began reading...

"Dear Mother!

Forgive me for causing you so much suffering and sorrow. Forgive me, wayward and lost son, who heartlessly wasted my time with friends, who neglected your love, who paid no attention to your tears. Mother, thank you for never giving up, for weeping over me, for praying for me! Mother, thank you for believing that one day I would come... that I would come and bow before Him to whom you've always served, in whom you've always trusted and whom you've always honored!

Mother, I have come...

Mother, I've finally understood that without Him, life cannot be abundant; without Him, life cannot be full; without Him, life is nothing! Oh, forgive me for taking so long while you continued believing, continued waiting!

I have come...

Though how sorry I am that I understood this so late, that I've lost so much, that I've lived so wretchedly and miserably. Now I pay for it with my freedom, but I'm happy that here, in prison, I've finally understood what true life's meaning is, who gives life and who controls it!

I ask you, Mother, to tell everyone like me that they're greatly mistaken, hoping for success in a debauched life with drugs and alcohol, that they're wasting their time on emptiness and what brings only pain! One day they'll understand this, but for many it may be too late! Stop, young people, stop those your parents weep over! Stop while it's not too late!

Mother, again, thank you for never renouncing me or rejecting me! Let this letter be your encouragement and support, let it be support for many mothers who have such sons!

With love, your lost and found son,"