An elderly woman came to our chapel of St. Nicholas the Wonderworker. She prayed for a long time to the saint, tears shone in her eyes. She said: There was a big and beautiful church in our village. It was closed in Soviet times. They were opened to the believers and opened to the unbelievers. The cross was thrown down, the windows knocked out, the shrines destroyed. The doors of the church did not close, and the children ran to the church after school lessons to indulge. We climbed into the bell tower, played hide and seek, shouted, broke what was left in the temple. At home, my mother would tell me, “Don’t go, Ninushka, to church to indulge in.” And if you pass by, cross yourself and bow. After school, my classmates go to church, and my name is. I’m afraid my mother didn’t. I’ll go and stop. And all the girls are in the temple: running there, laughing. I thought, “Mama won’t know.” I went to church. Opened a door, turned into the hallway, stumbled. Turned around, I don’t know where I came from. I want to get out, but I can’t find a way out. Everywhere I go, there’s a dead end. Walked and walked, it became dark and scary. Screaming — no one responds. Sit down the stairs and cry. I think, “I didn’t listen to my mother, no one will find me here.” Suddenly I see an old man standing next to me. I just wanted to ask him how to get out, and he silently pointed with his hand. I jumped up and went there. Turned around, the old man’s gone. Gone. I went out, ran home, told no one. Only after some time, when my mother took out the icons wrapped in a napkin, on one of them I recognized an old man I met in church. I told my mom everything. She scolded me a little for disobedience, then said that it was St. Nicholas the Wonderworker. Attached to his icon, wrapped it again and removed it.”
The Holy Land Charitable Foundation
Soul investment!
Orthodox stories from life
