I stopped at the monastery to spend the night and ended up with the abbot on his name day. They celebrated, of course, during the day, and at dinner they ate the remains of the fish pie — there were no other traces of celebration left. Then we went to the lake for a walk. The lake itself was located somewhat to the side, but one of its bays touched the walls of the monastery. There were benches on the shore, on which, as one might assume, the few inhabitants liked to rest. We settled down — freely and even somehow randomly, in order to maintain privacy, but at the same time see and hear each other. The abbot was an elderly abbot sent from a large monastery. He treated novices, regardless of their age, like little children, calling them robbers, disobedients and other similar names, while maintaining strictness in official and business relations.
To his right sat a thin, humble man with eyes as big as saucers, either gray or blue. He, as the abbot told me, was one of the Old Believers, a northerner. Yesterday he saved a boy: a village boy was checking his father’s nets and got caught, fell out of an inflatable boat and began to drown… This one, with eyes like saucers, heard screams, ran, swam, managed…
I don’t know how much time we spent in silence and contemplation of the autumn evening, when suddenly the humble man warned:
— Now there will be a battle,” and pointed to the geese swimming into our bay.
The abbot looked at him questioningly.
— This is a herd from a sugar factory. There are probably forty or fifty heads in it.
— So what? — the abbot did not understand.
— And the fact that the bay belongs to the village geese — there are seven of them splashing along the shore…
And he described the impending events. It seems that he knew the laws of the animal world well, because the coming epic developed in strict accordance with his predictions.
As soon as the villagers noticed the enemy’s invasion, they all, following their leader, rushed across. The sugar producers looked at this with obvious arrogance, but slowed down. Having reached the aggressor, the small herd fearlessly wedged itself into the middle of the crowd and began to furiously thresh in all directions. The enemy’s powerful ganders, carelessly dodging the chaotic and hectic attacks, in turn delivered blows of such crushing force that feathers flew from the villagers. However, the fury of the defenders, who did not spare their bellies, was fraught with unpredictable threats, and the strangers began to retreat to the opposite side of the bay. Finally, lazily fighting back, they went ashore, but even there, on the ground, the pursuit continued, and both troops disappeared from sight.
— Why are they so wary? — asked the abbot.
— Not wary, — answered our seer. “They are, of course, stronger, but for the village herd this bay is theirs.” You can say — homeland. And they will fight to the death. The factory ones are strong and arrogant, but these people don’t like to lose their feathers.
Then the victors finally returned: the leader walked ahead, silently, and behind him everyone was discussing the end of the battle. We went down into the water, headed into the depths of the bay, where there was a small village, and for a long time we heard their conversations and exclamations…
— Of course, these are just birds, but “let every breath praise the Lord,” and therefore this example testifies: God is not in power, but in truth,” concluded the abbot.
It is interesting that the next day gave me another illustration of the discussion about strength and victories. And this time not from a bird’s example, but completely from human existence.
The next morning, when I was preparing to leave, the humble man in a whisper asked me to serve a thanksgiving prayer at the first opportunity.
— And for what reason?
— Yes, father, I don’t know how to swim at all: in my homeland the water is icy — not for swimming.
— So how are you?
— I don’t know.
— Why didn’t you tell Father Superior?
— It’s awkward: it’s like I’m striving to become a miracle worker…
— Isn’t it a miracle? In a cassock, in boots, the water is cold, you don’t know how to swim — and you saved the guy…
— I don’t know, father, I don’t know how it happened: I have neither the strength nor the skill for such an action. I think the Lord wanted to save the boy — and he did. And the fact that I am weak is a trifle for God: the power of God, as we know, is made perfect in weakness.
Author: priest Yaroslav Shipov.
Holy Land Charitable Foundation
Investment in the Soul!
Orthodox stories from life
