The miracle


My grandfather was almost ninety when he became terminally ill. Until then a very vigorous man, grandfather was lying in a bed, drying out, terrified of approaching death. His horror was palpable and I shamefully avoided him. Nothing could be done: he was dying of old age. Almost a year passed. When spring arrived he was brought to his beloved dacha in the hope that he may perk up. Nothing changed there. Grandfather now could not eat at all and could barely drink; in late summer it suddenly came upon me that he must make a confession and partake communion.

My grandfather was born in the village and was baptized just as any baby would. He told me that after the 1917 revolution he became a Komsomol activist and even engaged in some primitive anti-religious activity (like a loud musical procession of Komsomol members, shouting quite stupid verses, in parallel to a religious one) together with other young villagers. He also related to me some details of the villagers’ piety – their very personal relationships with St Nicholas and Elijah the Prophet. When he left his village he lived as an exemplary Soviet man – one of those from Soviet black and white movies with Utesov: ever-optimistic, ever-charming, the heart of company, instantly loved by everyone. On the surface he seemed to be alien to the Church. Inside that image was the only person I knew who has never judged anyone, even those who reported him as “a Trotskyite” and tried to throw his wife and children out of their dacha after he was arrested.

I was afraid to talk to him about my idea to bring a priest but for some reason he easily agreed and even perked up a bit. My task was to find the priest.

First I went to that village church where I was baptized. I came there after the Liturgy; a very young and very handsome priest appeared in the arch smelling the dark red rose in his hand, he heard me and refused to come. I do not remember his reasons. All that is left in my memory is “maybe in a few weeks”. My friend who was with me was stunned. I was not, all this somehow passed over me without much impact. Next day I went to another church near by, this time during the Liturgy. There were two or three priests there, after the service I approached the oldest, evidently their chief. I only began relating to him that my grandfather was dying and needed to confess and receive communion when he interrupted me shouting “What?! Could you not organize it in advance? I will not go anywhere!” Nevertheless I, already crying, attempted to beg him to come or if not him then another one, but another one refused as well and they walked away. I was standing in the middle of the church; several congregation members tried to comfort me with the words “Yes, he is difficult – nothing to do now” but I did not listen to them thinking about what to do. Suddenly a tall, thin, peasant-like priest whom I have not noticed before approached me and said “I will come but I am traveling, I am from Volga and my train is in a few hours – catch a car”. So I wiped my tears, caught a taxi and brought the priest to our dacha.

The priest ordered me to help him with singing the prayers before the confession. I warned him that I had no musical ear but he insisted. A minute after I began singing he interrupted me “no, better be quite, I will manage”. I was not present during the confession of course but was called in when grandfather was about to receive communion. Grandfather looked much more alive. After the departure of the priest he ate for the first time in weeks. He lived two more weeks, completely free from the fear of death contemplating something that he did not share with us and died peacefully on the day of Elijah the Prophet, the major feast in his village.

It was clear to me that, although it was a crime, the refusals of the other priests to come to the dying man were providential. The one who came and whose name I unfortunately do not remember was the only one suitable: decent and from a village somewhere in the depth of Russia, with that very country make-up of mind which my grandfather kept beneath his Soviet-icon appearances. When he died the funeral service was not conducted by the priest with the red rose but by someone else. The priest with the rose was removed as I heard later.

 

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