Each of us has a hidden place in which we were born and grew up. From such small homelands a single and powerful Fatherland, our common home, filled with human destinies, has been formed. Once in every little heart, love for the Motherland wakes up, the essay about which reveals to the reader the true meaning of patriotism and selfless devotion to one’s native land.
The native land is a cradle that pumps us on the waves of life. It catches up when we fall, hides from all sorts of hardships and everyday troubles, teaches us human kindness, mutual assistance, loyal friendship and true love.
Love for the Motherland is in the heart of each of us. Just someone feels sharper and deeper. Others in the cycle of everyday life do not think about it. But if a disaster by a black wing covers its native land, everyone will become a patriot of the Motherland. Memories of the war are a perfect confirmation of this. Conscience and duty raise the people to heroic deeds. When a whole country is trampled by the enemy, it burns in the fire, groans with pain, yawns in silent cries with funnels from explosions of shells and bombs, then all the “I” merge into one powerful resistance force. Each cartridge is more expensive than the last piece of bread. Each liter of fuel for a tank or aircraft is valued above the last sip of water. And Homeland honor is more precious than life. And it really was so!
Love for one’s native land does not come by itself. From
Love for the Motherland is first of all love for the place where you were born, said the first word, took the first step, grew up, found true friends, met the first love, stepped into adulthood. Wherever your destiny throws you, this place will be sacred, in which one always wants to return. It is called the Little Homeland. Small Homelands merge into a whole country, to which every citizen of hers experiences sublime feelings – patriotism, pride, admiration.
Growing up young men and girls will scatter around the world in search of a better life. Many will settle in a foreign land, create families, business. Live their lives with pressing problems. And suddenly the moment will come when memories of the Motherland will pierce the heart with painful pain. In the ears there is a tinkling bell of a small native church, zashumyat, poured with grain, ears in the wind, the nightingales sing loudly, the transparent village rivulets. The native land will be called home by the mother’s voice and will wait patiently, graying with white snow.
Meeting with the homeland from the secluded corners of the soul will throw out those bright thoughts and deeds, the best motives and, of course, dreams that will flow out with blessed tears, washing the heart, torn with separation.