The service is over. The temple is empty. Even though the day was coming to an end, as a priest I still had a lot to do. Having exposed himself, he came out of the altar and wanted to turn off the light, when he suddenly heard quiet sobs in a dark corner. Coming closer, I saw, dressed unseasonably, in a light cloak, a little old woman sitting on a bench and wiping away her tears. The surprise made me confused.
— What happened?
She lifted her head and looked at me through tears.
From under the patterned, dark brown handkerchief that came down on his forehead, a wrinkled face looked out. Dry, dotted with veins, not in growth large, strained hands convulsively squeezed a wet handkerchief. She looked up at me. Tired of grief, my eyes begged for help.
I sat down and gently hugged her by the shoulders like a mother. She smelled like a lot of old ladies — old lingerie and valerian.
And then it burst. She took an unusually deep breath and wept.
I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-Not-Not-Not-Not-Not-Not-Not-Not-Not-Not-Not-Not-On purposely- I didn’t want to. . . . through bitter sobs and sobs she squeezed out of herself piece by piece.
I held her close to me and, patting her on the head, said calmly:
— Well, well, well, it’s okay.
So we sat for a while until she calmed down. I let her go and sat down opposite, ready to listen carefully. At this time, apparently from flashing memories, large drops of tears again came up in front of her eyes, but she pulled herself together. Drying her eyes with a wet handkerchief, she took a deep breath again.
Exactly 32 years ago, my husband and I built a cottage. We had no children, so they put their whole soul into a cozy house, she began her story.
— Work was coming to an end. I was always unhappy with something. The ceilings are too low, the stairs to the second floor were very steep, the stove was not so. And my husband and I were fighting all the time, even though the instigator of our quarrels was always me, always dissatisfied with something. And one time we had such a fight that I fervently shouted at him, «May you die.»
She again came back in tears and fell silent, trying to pull herself together to continue. A minute later, she said,
The next day he was hit to death by a car, and when she stopped holding back, she sobbed bitterly.
I sat across the street looking at her and for the first time I didn’t know what to say. No, I didn’t get a drop of judgment. I was struck by her remorse. I’m sure that for 32 years she didn’t have a day not to remember this case and not to repent, feeling guilty for the death of her husband. It is clear that he did not die from her burning words, as many superstitious people think. A man cannot die because someone wishes him harm. The Lord says in consolation that all the hair on the head is numbered. I understood her guilt and realized that for the rest of her life she could not forgive herself for her intemperance and that their family life was so unpeacefully cut short. But the plans were different — to live peacefully together to old age in their cozy house.
I sat next to her again and hugged her again, but only tighter, and so we sat, swaying a little, as if I had a little child in my arms who had to be reassured so that he could sleep peacefully. When she calmed down, I whispered in her ear:
Come on, let’s go. You’re not alone now. You now have us — our whole parish, which for me is like a family, and you will be my own mother.
She lifted her head and I saw a ray of hope gleaming joyfully on her weeping face! I saw how joy filled her soul. For the first time in all these years, she found happiness. I was glad that another desperate soul was resurrected!
The author of the story: abbot Alipiy Zhivotikov
The Holy Land Charitable Foundation
Orthodox stories from life
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