The school got a swimming pool. Climate and land-care charities across the world and at home woke up that morning to find massive gifts from an anonymous donor. He’d sold everything he owned. He’d given it all away. I heard from him when he caught up with Jesus. The letters came frequently. I heard about everything that happened. He wrote to me about the fear and the joy and the terrible days of loss, before the resurrection. Then, he wrote to me about seeing Jesus alive again, promising me that he was quite sane and that the rumours were true, whatever else I heard. He wrote about how the group was getting really big and how he was happy. As happy as he could remember, since he was a kid. He told me that he was learning every day how to love God and love people. Learning how to love everything God has made. I wrote back, telling him again about his mother’s prayer. About our prayer for him, before he was born. I had to write it twice. My tears wrecked the first draft. It’s been years now. There’s a whole group of us in town now, who follow the teachings of Jesus. But Kay still writes. In his latest letter, he talks about joining up with some fella called Paul. Bit intense he reckons, but alright. A good bloke. I don’t worry anymore. He’s a stone skimming over the shining water. He leaves ripples of love, just like his mother. One day he’ll sink, but it’ll be into the deep mystery of God. I am not afraid for him. Or for me. I am not his mother. And I am not the only mother he has. He has found a home and a family. As have I. He is his mothers’ son. 50
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