These two or three years were probably the happiest; my faith was not separating me from the environment but transformed it. There were no conflicts any more; I even managed to get a permission to make an Orthodox magazine instead of some other project themes which were given to us at the Institute. Also, I was advised by one of my confessors to start painting miniature icons. (I began studying the icon painting using the book The Work of an Iconographer by nun Iuliania Sokolova, the most important figure in Russian icon painting of 20th century after I bought the book by pure chance: nobody told me where and how to learn). The only people who suffered were the members of my family to whom I preached ceaselessly, urging them to go to the church immediately and confess. After one of my particularly passionate sermons my brother said to me with an ironical smile “Do you know who is your Alexiy II (Patriarch)? – I know him, he is one of us, a KGB.” I thought he was saying rubbish just to annoy me.
My mother, still fearful of me becoming a nun was present at my first Easter, in the monastery where I regularly confessed. When we came there Saturday evening it was surrounded by very unfriendly Kazaks who swore at us and even waved their whips. They shouted out that only those who have a VIP pass can come in. Mother did not give up: she said to them that I had a confessor there and even asked to call him out. I was standing before them like an idiot unable to understand why anyone would need a VIP pass to come to the Paschal service. I attempted to deliver my thoughts to the Kazaks (very much in manner of my speech before the solders on the tanks) but to no avail. All this looked hopeless but suddenly one of Kazaks said “go, sister but quickly”.
The monastery was an official Patriarchal residence thus the Kazaks and the VIPs. I did not know that – I was concerned only with my confessions and communion. The Easter service made me quickly forget about the whips and VIPs. My first and following experiences of God present in the Church were such that that many bad experiences, from “nasty old grannies” to far more serious matters never prevented me from remaining inside the Church. Perhaps the grace made me insensitive to them.