Krupin Vladimir
Krupin Vladimir
Varvara
Vladimir Nikolaevich Krupin
A story within stories
The star of the fields, the star above the father's house.
And my mother's sad hand...
Vologda old woman
I was traveling with an old woman on the train. Not just any way - in a reserved seat carriage. It won’t hurt to drive people into the general one now.
This old woman is from Vologda, I am from Vyatka. The earth is the same and lives converge. I remember what, she supports: this way, that way! What, he says, I’m taking my daughter, you won’t believe it, you’ll laugh. "What is it?" And laughter and grief, he says, I go on a visit with my spoon. He opens his suitcase - full of spoons and Easter eggs. Her daughter asked her to bring it: these days, she wrote, wooden spoons are considered rare. I also ordered an ancient icon, but my mother was not lucky with the icon: it’s not a spoon.
Then I reached into my bag. I laugh: “Gee, what am I bringing for my son - a Dymkovo Vyatka toy.”
Isn’t it amazing that we are carrying toys and not food? We remembered how three sacks of potatoes were rammed and exchanged for flour...
She said that she was traveling with an old woman. The only thing we agreed on was that we are not old women, although we are grandmothers. Although there is a proverb: the old grows old, the young grows, but in fact the old lives, but the young still thinks about living. The old have decided on the place, and the young are rushing about.
The first granddaughter was born, well, I say to my husband: hello, grandfather! No, the mother answers, I won’t be called grandfather until my granddaughter herself calls it. I didn’t wait too long, not a year had passed, I started talking. I tease him: let go of your beard, tell stories. So he would have told a lot of things, he knew a lot by heart, he was old school, but his granddaughter was taken away. Here is a telegram from my son: the second granddaughter, then the middle one has a grandson, and so we caught up to seven. They don’t live with us, they all travel. Or we go to them. They receive you well, you won’t be offended, but you’ll live, and you’ll want to go home. A house is a house.
Now I work as a duty officer at a hotel, I’ve seen enough on business trips. Our rooms are warm, the TV is on, cleaning is done every day, and it’s a rare case that someone isn’t in a hurry to go home...
broken window
Bad without permanent place residence. Take, for example, pigeons. There are many pigeons living in the attic of the hotel. And at one time they wanted to evict us: the attic was dirty, and they were shouting and bothering clients.
In the morning they were kicked out and a window was installed. They've been flying all day, worried, but can't get back.
And in the evening they also shouted about how to sit down. I dealt with the visitors in the evening; a lot of people arrived, I accommodated everyone. We had to install cots: people shouldn’t spend the night on the street.
At night I remembered the pigeons - they were silent. Well, I think we found another place.
And in the morning the manager comes in and asks why the window in the attic is broken. Who knocked it out with a stone or something? “I don’t know, I haven’t seen it.” We climbed into the attic, and there were pigeons.
The window is broken, and one person lies dead at the window. Apparently, the one who broke through the glass.
So we didn’t kick them out anymore. And they buried him.
I'm getting old, of course. My head becomes completely full of holes. When I go to work, I forget my glasses or something else. It’s not up to us, guy, who gets what time. But what’s interesting is that I remember my childhood, my old people, and the time has come to remember them too. We were alive, we were no longer thinking about them, we were thinking about ourselves. Apparently, it wasn’t started by us, it won’t end with us. And our grandchildren will remember us in their old age.
The first thing I remember is when big family lived. There were eighteen people in the family. They began to share. My father chose a higher place, sand, so that the yard would be dry. He says, “I already struggle with water at work (he was a raftsman and rafter, a pilot), so let the house be on dry land. Grass in the yard. Uncle Grisha, my father's brother, was jealous of everything. “Semyon, he shouts, I’ll come with a plow and plow the whole yard!” Well, he's joking, of course.
And so, I remember, they took me to the old courtyard, and sent me back alone. I'm lost.
I stand on the bridge over Meletka and cry: where is our home, where is our home?
Uncle Grisha took me out. Then he teased everyone: “Where is our home, where is our home.” I’ve become an adult, I came to bury my aunt, Uncle Grisha is gray-haired, and he didn’t forget, he teased me.
Yes, and I remember: I lost my house, what’s worse?
You can’t gather all the work in one place, people move away. And we grew up and moved away too. Your children have gone. They had just acquired something, they were both young, just to live—it was war. They took my husband, and all my joy turned into care and work. The war has pumped things up - children need to be taught...
Why am I complaining! The children would live well, that would be my joy. And to say that although we grew up in hardship, there was joy. We used to mow when we were still girls, we’d get tired, then we’d go out, and suddenly it would rain! If you pull off your scarf, throw back your head, let it whip! You will open the dress on your chest, and your chest will be exposed to the rain!
No, I'm not complaining. It was difficult for our fathers - they raised us, it was easier for us - they taught their children, it was even easier for their grandchildren. Have you ever thought about driving five ten kilometers? Everything is on foot. Now five hundred meters seems like a lot. Cunning people, smarter. If you rinse before, your hands get cold and ache until the morning, but now they’ve come up with surgical gloves, so your hands don’t get cold like that. And they stop rinsing themselves; they buy washing machines.
There are cars all around. What technology can’t do! When they mark out stacks of straw, they climb down from them and tie two birch trees together. And in winter a tractor comes and catches a whole load. One tractor doesn't take it, the other one does. No - the third one. And still they will drag you from your place and rush you to the farm.
Eh, my father didn’t live to see this. He would rejoice at the technology. He couldn’t get enough of the seeders: all his life he sowed from a basket. I didn't live to see electricity for a week. The whole village is now entangled in wires.
Washing machine Mom would be amazed. I washed three tubs of laundry on Saturday. With my family and I no less. You'll break your lower back so much that you'll moan all night, but quietly, so as not to wake up the children. And in the morning you get up early to light the stove, milk the cow, and cook breakfast. But if you don’t get up right away, you won’t get up at all. Slowly you will break down.
But what I noticed in the laundry room is that it’s better to wash and eat with your hands, unlike a machine. Now I’d be glad to do the laundry, but there’s no one to do it for.
My children have separated and scattered. I'm not offended, live. God will give me health and there will be no war, and I will live.
I remembered God, but I haven’t been to church myself... No, I’m lying! - was. When I baptized the children. If you say it, they won’t believe it: three at once. How did it happen? War, husband in the army, small children. His mother and mine got together and forced him. How can one disagree: if, they say, you baptize, God will take care of your husband and he will return alive.
The eldest was already big. They brought it. Pop fanned himself. For forty years, he says, I have been serving, for the first time I baptized three of them at once.
The eldest were not dipped into the font, but instead their face and head were soaked, and the younger ones were dipped. Then they were carried around the font, and he himself walked. And then shame on the head, shame on the head! The priest gave communion. The eldest ate first and asked: “Give me more, grandfather!” So he took my head off. But the priest didn’t mind, he laughed and gave it. The children didn't see much sweets. Then the eldest walked around, boasting: “The little ones were baptized, but I was baptized myself!”
Nettle soup
Last year I went, that church no longer exists. And I met someone I didn’t want, like the devil slipped me in! Izlestieva. Accountant throughout the war. American gifts came - he divided them. Is it really the most likely thing to be thrust upon those with many children, all to themselves and to their acquaintances?
I wonder how I survived the war with such and such a bunch of children. I tried all sorts of tricks. The cow is the main thing, and people helped. How not to remember Lida Novoselova and Andrei Karnaukhov. She worked in a bakery store.
When they gave us cards, he used to order it and come back: there might be some left over. So I cut mine, give it to the children a piece at a time, and run back. I'll stand aside and wait. If there is hope, it will blink - just wait. And if not, he will also make it clear. And sometimes she brought it.
And Andrey Karnaukhov is a widower. I felt sorry for the kids. No, no, and he’ll bring some bread. He said they were sending people from the village, but then I found out that he was saving on himself. I even dried the bag somehow. There is no bread - I bring a plate of crackers from the closet.
The children will come, the crackers will remember. It's funny: it's like sucking candy. And they probably forgot about nettles and quinoa.
Now on the radio and in newspapers they recommend sorrel soup, with sourness in our style. And with nettles. They researched that there are a lot of vitamins. I listen and am glad that the children ate a lot of greens. Then woe - I feed the children grass, whiten them with milk, and salt them with tears. But they all grew strong. Now make me some soup with nettles - I don’t want the spirit! I'm full.
Someone is probably brewing it out of interest. Why more? Of course, greens are better, not some kind of chemical.
After the war, cards were canceled. On the one hand, this is good, but on the other hand, it hits those with many children. In cards for a family member, and here for the buyer. I bring the guys - the women shout: here you are!
Why not drag it - unless only the big ones want to eat? I’m kind of timid, and it’s insulting, but I won’t say anything. But one woman, she has even more than mine, all of them are red-haired, so they went up against her - she went to the district committee to see the secretary. "Are you a party member?" - "Party." - “Put down the ticket, since you can’t restore order.”
He then gave instructions: to give families how many children come to the store.
It became easier. And it’s true - the little ones are growing, they need to eat. I feel sorry for them most of all.
But I didn’t go to bed hungry. Diversified everything. Jacket potatoes, then pounded with milk, then potato cutlets, then a casserole made from it. My children are eating!
But for some reason they were embarrassed to stand in line. Okay, I say, don’t stand there, at least come when you get it. I'll go with the youngest, I'll order the older ones. Once I remembered: the eldest came. It used to be that a corner would be cut off from each loaf, but they would hang a large one for him, whole. Yes to me, yes to my daughter. Three was good enough for us.
Nutrition, of course, depended on harvests. During the war the land was depleted, not...
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I haven't played much for money gambling. But the lead balls were dropping, I knew. They were filled with lead from discarded batteries. Spent, easily wrinkled electrodes were melted in a tin can. They scooped up the scum and poured it into holes squeezed out in the ground. The warm cue balls weighed down my hand like a grown-up.
One day, behind the bushes of heather, from which we were cutting bows for crossbows, we ran into a small fire. The guy by the fire jumped up and looked around. But I saw that he was stronger than us and calmed down. But still he drove away.
Brass knuckles do,” said one of us.
A terrible word - brass knuckles. Why did he do it? Where is this guy now?
CASTAL KEYS
The scripts about Van Gogh, about Gauguin, and their paintings had such an impact that while hiking with the children, I looked indifferently at the landscape of the parking lot. The landscape, however, is excellent: a quiet river with swirling creeks; reeds, willows, hung with tangled hair of mermaids; an oak tree that has raised a stack of leaves on the forks of its branches; black-headed impetuous seagulls, - all this, done in green and yellow, enlivened by the red spot of the dress on the bushes, dots of flowers, animated by the best of aromas - the smell of hay, sounded by the splashes of fish and, if you listen, the rustling of leaves - all this, met with a cry of delight, it was paler than Van Gogh’s paintings, but it was mine, I grew up in such places, and the inertia of my fascination with the French scared me.
But I lived for four days and realized that everything was in order, that my Castalian springs were still flowing from under the pine tree.
Green here ranges from black to white. The oats are deep blue, with yellow streaks, and it is easy to see the wind, or rather its sudden turns. They are indicated by quickly flashing silver.
A STAR IS FALLING
If you manage to make a wish before it goes out, your wish will come true. There is such a sign.
I threw my head back and, to the point of tears, without blinking, looked from the Earth to the sky. I had one desire, for the fulfillment of which the stars were needed - to be loved. I considered myself in control over everything else.
When the immediately fading, curved trail of a star flashed, it appeared so immediately that the desire I had learned by heart, “I want her to love me...” bounced off, and I only had time to say, not with my voice - with my heart: “I love, I love, I love!”
When my star falls, God forbid that some boy standing far, far below, on Earth, will utter his cherished wish. And my star will try to go out not as quickly as those I wished for.
SECRET
When light music, or color music, appeared, it simply stunned me. Music is sound for the ear, music of light is a spectacle for the eyes. Nowadays, no one would be surprised by this, but then, back then it was impressive.
I saw the birth of a planet. She appeared so beautifully, in such dazzlingly pure colors, that her further life seemed unnecessary.
Or saw the death of the planet. So monstrously powerful, in such unprecedented combinations of light, color and shadow, that in another minute I would have closed my eyes.
An incredible spectacle that cannot be repeated.
I used to think that a certain note corresponded to a certain color. During the viewing, I decided that the theme of music gives rise to a combination of moving patterns of colors, that is, a certain equivalent of music in color. Now I think it’s neither this nor that. But what?
In front of the window, I felt like I was wrapped in something that could get burned. I was a primitive creature and an interstellar wanderer. I was under and over, for and against, and all at the same time.
There is a being that speaks with light and color. The pattern of whirling, rushing galaxies is a conspiracy, readable by someone. But by whom?
Well, of course, these were fantasies, imagination. But there was also something calling to the beyond. Where you don’t need to go and where you can’t change anything.
THERE ARE NO ORPHANS IN THE WORLD
We entered the shining twilight. The phrase continued for some time as an unnecessary continuation of the abandoned world: “...recorded, broadcast... by Christian communities...”
...And just as a traveler in a cold, homeless night sees a light, like a child, crying and offended, runs to his mother, so we come to the Most Pure Virgin Mary...
At the top, the perspective, narrowing the space, seemed reversed, as in ancient Russian icons. In the gold frames, countless bends of the metal reflected the light of the candles.
...We all have one mother - the Most Pure Virgin Mary...
The choir sang hallelujah, the worshipers knelt, and we found ourselves above everyone else, useless columns in the middle of the field. They found themselves above everyone else without their own effort and desire to rise above everyone else.
...And while She exists, there are no orphans in the world. And She will remain forever.
And the tired will find rest, and the crying will be comforted, and the lost will find the way.
This happened more than half a century ago, but it remains forever.
TIN
First musical instrument The one I saw was a shepherd's trumpet.
A herd walked along the wide street, obeying the signals of a tin pipe. In the spring, the shepherd often used a ten-meter whip. But in the summer he didn’t have to take it: the whip did its job, taught the cows to understand the owner’s music.
The shepherd, as was customary, dined alternately in houses where there were cows. It's our turn.
He entered, struck the threshold with his shoes, shook off the dust of the pastures and placed his pipe on the bench. Then I examined it closely, even took it in my hands, even quietly blew into the tin funnel.
The pipe was riveted from tin tin and soldered at the seam with something yellow. It was light and, taken by the thin horseshoe of the handle, comfortably rose to the lips, reminiscent of the horn of military signalmen.
When I timidly blew into it, there was no trumpet sound. Only the breath, enhanced by resonance, came out of the bell as a wheeze.
Then I myself bent whistles from tin. Sometimes I put a pea inside. But it was not music, but whistling, and not even artistic.
BALLOONS
They wanted to distribute balloons to children, but they calculated that there wouldn’t be enough for everyone. Someone came up with the idea of tying them with one cord, attaching a flag and a portrait to the cord, and launching them into the sky.
The balls were tied and the resulting bunch of grapes, growing upward, was brought to the square. They attached a portrait and a flag and, while firing from rocket launchers, accompanied by the screams of children, they released him. The balls rushed, but could not lift the weight.
And the rockets dried up, the screams died down and, to avoid embarrassment, the portrait was separated from the heavy frame. But even then the balls did not take off. The flag was untied.
And in silence, without fireworks, without applause, the portrait went towards the clouds. And soon he disappeared into them.
OLD POST
In spring, some places in the park are treated with chemicals. The trees and grass turn unnaturally pink. The spectacle is excellent, but poisonous. The runaway dog died.
And once I wrote down, as material for a story, about such an artist who supposedly lived and had his own And denition. The vision was presented ironically. He supposedly got up in the morning and saw pink grass and trees. I recorded his delight, how he ran out and began to hug pink trees, got poisoned and died. Death would be morality. Like, the world is the world.
And now I was going through old notes and threw out the entry about the artist, because I myself want to wake up, go to the window and see pink trees.
KATINA LETTER
Katya asked me to draw a letter, but she herself could not explain which one.
I drew the letter K. “No,” said Katya. The letter A? Not again. T? No. I? No.
She tried to draw it herself, but she couldn’t and was worried. Then I wrote all the letters of the alphabet large. I wrote and asked about each one: this one? No, the letter Katya was not in the entire alphabet.
What does she look like? For a dog?
And for the dog.
I drew a dog. “This letter?”
No. She also looks like mom and dad, and a house, and an airplane, and ice cream, and a tree, and a cat...
But is there such a letter?
For a long time I drew Katya’s letter, but I still couldn’t guess. Katya suffered more than me. She knew what letter it was, but couldn’t explain, or maybe I was just not understanding. I still don’t know what this universal letter looks like. Maybe when Katya learns to write, she will write it.
COFFIN WITH MUSIC
I have long wanted to write down a story that amazed me about the funeral of a post-perestroika bandit. They buried the authority Vasya with music and fireworks over the grave, but all this could not have been for Vasya, but for any boss, even a non-mafia boss. But Vasya, unlike other dead people, was not left without music even after death.
How? And so: into his coffin, naturally, from the reddest tree, with a transparent lid, were placed: a) multi-colored flashing lanterns, which should remind Vasya of the happiness of childhood; b) audio cassettes with Vasya’s favorite songs and melodies. The batteries in the player were designed to last for forty days, as were the flashing lights. Now even inveterate atheists know that after the fortieth day something happens to the souls of the dead, after which they do not need the sounds and colors of the earthly world.
And what you need? Here Vasya’s sidekicks and brothers didn’t understand and didn’t think about it.
But then I did not write down this story, naively believing that this was the limit of blasphemy in relation to death, and that it was impossible to go further than this.
It turned out it was possible. Here new story. As you know, the damned Muscovites are to blame for all the troubles of the former Soviet republics. Soviet Muscovites, in which democratic Muscovites helped a lot, have already been dragged through the mud, but something is wrong former republics if you didn’t do better, there is no happiness in life again. Ah, they realized in Moldova, because Muscovites were still around in the seventeenth century. Then a Moldavian writer married a Muscovite princess. How can you endure this? And so - I swear that I did not make it up - here in Chisinau they dissolve the marriage of a Moldovan who died two centuries ago with a Russian princess, find him a current bride (it seems a singer) and... get married. The imprisoned father of the bride and groom are very prominent politicians. Don't believe me? Go to Chisinau and ask. Everyone there knows about it. And there was a wedding. And music. I don’t know if the dead man was dancing. That's it. This is the music.
Stories
There was a case near Poltava
The first person I met when I set foot on the battlefield of Poltava was a priest. The thought instantly flashed: how good it would be to first receive a blessing in such a holy place, and I rushed towards it, folding my palms as usual. And then I was recoiled - what if he was a Filaret member. But the priest was already taking a step forward. Still, I asked:
Bless me, father. Oh, I have to ask, what jurisdiction are you in?
“The one you need,” he answered, crossing me and smiling welcomingly.
Needless to say, the Ukrainian schism started by Metropolitan Philaret is not only a religious phenomenon, but also a moral and even political one. If it weren’t for him, would such shields with a portrait of a traitor and the inscriptions on them be conceivable: “Mazepa - victory of the Ukrainian state”? And the posters were the size of billboards advertising beer.
The yellow-blakit banners suppressed all others. In second place were the Swedish ones, in the third place were the Russian tricolors. Zhupans and hats, long mustaches and dashing oseledki, red loose trousers, accordion boots - everything previously would have seemed like some kind of costumed celebration.
In general, it was a holiday, and great holiday- 300th anniversary of the Battle of Poltava, but it was immediately clear that the owners of the independent, independent, independent, vast Ukraine appropriated it completely to themselves. Moreover, they shared it with the Swedes, who were beaten here then, but now they were even more welcome here. Today's Ukraine has appropriated to itself not only territories Russian Empire, but also her past. Heroic battle, which saved Russia, has now been torn away from Russia. Now it turned out that it did not happen in Russia, but abroad. The hefty boys, of course, were mummers, but they were not actors here, but the bosses. They were the masters here. We, the Russian delegation, were not exactly squeezed, no, we were placed in the front row, but somehow we were constantly made to feel that we were guests here. But the bread and salt was so good, the maidens in wreaths, ribbons and monasteries were so beautiful that it overcame the bitterness. Brave music thundered, but for some reason pop music, and not the march of the Preobrazhensky Regiment, which would have reminded of the Russian soldiers who died here.
Everyone is smart now, and there is no one to tell that there is no longer any use in washing the decayed royal bones, especially Peter I. All the authorities are black and white. That is, the complete villain is Satan himself, and he gives his servants the opportunity to deceive people to also do good deeds. Herod beat the babies, but Herod’s water supply still flows, the same Mazepa built the temples. Take Beria - he took care of street children. All this is to say. Peter is a providential phenomenon, like Stalin, and it is not for us, earthlings, to fully understand them. It is enough to say: “God is the judge of everyone.”
So, the Battle of Poltava - maybe, and maybe not, but definitely - the main achievement of Peter. Here it is more appropriate to resort to quotes from works published in due time on the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Poltava. Victory in it put an end to the master of Europe, Charles XII, and changed the Western view of us Russians.
The following is an extract from the book “Temple in the Name of Sampson the Host on the Field of the Battle of Poltava,” edition 1895, Poltava: “Everyone now had to change their view of “barbarian Muscovy,” proud neighbors began to look at its king with respect, valued his friendship and did not dare to insult the Russian flag, which began to flutter on the Baltic waters... The people began to be more trusting of their Sovereign, came to terms with everything that had previously seemed painful to them, and already resignedly looked at the internal transformation, seeing in it the reason for the recent glory and necessary condition future greatness. Let us not forget, finally, another very important consequence of the abusive affair near Poltava. After all, only half a century has passed since Bogdan Khmelnitsky tore the long-suffering Little Russia out of the hands of Poland and annexed it to Moscow of the same faith. This means that Poland had not yet forgotten this loss and was only waiting for an opportunity to return what was lost. If we had lost the battle of Poltava, then southwestern Russia would not have been able to defend its independence, and those terrible times of union would have returned to it, when our holy places were leased to the Jews, and Orthodox churches were sealed, and church estates were taken away in favor of the Catholic clergy and other. Now Poland did not dare to argue with Peter; weakened even earlier by the same Swedes, she forever buried her hopes for Little Russia... The Poltava victory brought us great benefits: it immediately and, God willing, forever made Russia the most powerful state in the world, a united and indivisible state. It’s not for nothing that grateful descendants called this victory the Russian Resurrection.”
Miraculous words: the story itself, grains of mother's prayer full description from all the sources we found.
“A mother’s prayer will reach you from the bottom of the sea” - of course, everyone knows this proverb. But how many people believe that this proverb was said not only as a catchphrase, but is completely true and has been confirmed by countless examples over many centuries.Father Pavel, a monk, told me an incident that happened to him. He told it as if everything was as it should have been. This incident struck me, and I will retell it; I think that it is surprising not only for me.
“I was in a hurry,” said Father Pavel, “and didn’t have time that day.” Yes, I must admit, I forgot the address. And a day later, early in the morning, she met me again, very excited, and urgently asked, directly begged me to go to my son. For some reason I didn’t even ask why she didn’t come with me. I went up the stairs and rang the bell. The man opened it. Very unkempt, young, it’s immediately obvious that he’s a heavy drinker. He looked at me impudently, I was in vestments. I said hello and said: your mother asked me to come to you. He jumped up: “Okay, lie, my mother died five years ago.” And on the wall is her photograph, among others. I point to the photo and say: “This is exactly the woman who asked to visit you.” He said with such a challenge: “So you came from the other world for me?” - “No,” I say, “that’s it for now. But what I tell you, you do: come to the temple tomorrow morning” - “What if I don’t come?” - “You’ll come: your mother asks. It’s a sin not to fulfill your parents’ words.”
He came that day. And in the evening I last time met his mother. She was very happy. The scarf she was wearing was white, but before that it was dark. She thanked him very much and said that her son was forgiven, since he repented and confessed, and that she had already seen him. Then I myself, in the morning, went to his address. Neighbors said he died yesterday and they took him to the morgue.
This is the story of Father Pavel. But I, a sinner, think: this means that the mother was given the ability to see her son from the place where she was after her earthly death, which means that she was given the opportunity to know the time of her son’s death. This means that her prayers there were so fervent that she was given the opportunity to incarnate and ask the priest to confess and give communion to the unfortunate servant of God. After all, it’s so scary - to die without repentance, without communion.
“A mother’s prayer will reach you from the bottom of the sea” - of course, everyone knows this proverb. But how many people believe that this proverb was not said for rhetorical purposes, but is absolutely true, and has been confirmed by countless examples over many centuries.
On the street, a woman approached Father Pavel and asked him to go see her son. Confess. She gave the address.
“I was in a hurry,” said Father Pavel, “and didn’t have time that day.” Yes, I must admit, I forgot the address. And a day later, early in the morning, she met me again, very excited, and urgently asked, directly begged me to go to my son. For some reason I didn’t even ask why she didn’t come with me. I went up the stairs and rang the bell. The man opened it. Very unkempt, young, it’s immediately obvious that he’s a heavy drinker. He looked at me impudently, I was in vestments. I said hello and said: your mother asked me to come to you. He jumped up: “Okay, lie, my mother died five years ago.” And on the wall there is her photograph among others. I point to the photo and say: “This is exactly the woman who asked to visit you.” He said with such a challenge: “So you came from the other world for me?” “No,” I say, that’s it for now. And here's what I tell you
I’ll say, you do it: come to the temple tomorrow morning.” - “What if I don’t come?” - “You will come: mother asks. It’s a sin not to fulfill your parents’ words.”
And he came. And in confession he was literally shaking with sobs, saying that he kicked his mother out of the house. She lived with strangers and soon died. He even found out later, he didn’t even bury her.
And in the evening I met his mother for the last time. She was very happy. The scarf she was wearing was white, but before that it was dark. She thanked him very much and said that her son was forgiven because he repented and confessed and that she had already seen him. Then I myself, in the morning, went to his address. Neighbors said he died yesterday and they took him to the morgue.
This is the story of Father Pavel. But I, a sinner, think: this means that the mother was given the ability to see her son from the place where she was after her earthly death, which means that she was given the opportunity to know the time of her son’s death. This means that her prayers there were so fervent that she was given the opportunity to incarnate and ask the priest to confess and give communion to the unfortunate servant of God. After all, it’s so scary - to die without repentance, without communion.
And most importantly: it means that she loved him, loved her son, even such a drunken one who drove him out my own mother. This means that she was not angry, she was sorry, and, already knowing more than all of us about the fate of sinners, she did everything to ensure that this fate passed her son. She pulled him out from the bottom of sin. It is she, and only she, by the power of her love and prayer.
The story itself is like a mother's prayer
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Having analyzed your questions and essays, I conclude that the most difficult thing for you is to select arguments from literary works. The reason is that you don't read much. I won’t say unnecessary words for edification, but I will recommend SMALL works, which you can read in a few minutes or an hour. I am sure that in these stories and stories you will discover not only new arguments, but also new literature.
Krupin Vladimir "Mother's Prayer"
Father Pavel, a monk, told me an incident that happened to him recently. He told it as if everything was as it should have been. This incident struck me, and I will retell it; I think that it is surprising not only for me.
On the street, a woman approached Father Pavel and asked him to go see her son. Confess. She gave the address.
“I was in a hurry,” said Father Pavel, “and didn’t have time that day.” Yes, I must admit, I forgot the address. And a day later, early in the morning, she met me again, very excited, and urgently asked, directly begged me to go to my son. For some reason I didn’t even ask why she didn’t come with me. I went up the stairs and rang the bell. The man opened it. Very unkempt, young, it’s immediately obvious that he’s a heavy drinker. He looked at me impudently: I was in vestments. I said hello and said: your mother asked me to come to you. He jumped up: “Okay, lie, my mother died five years ago.” And on the wall there is her photograph among others. I point to the photo and say: “This is exactly the woman who asked to visit you.” He said with such a challenge: “So you came from the other world for me?” “No,” I say, “that’s it for now. But what I tell you, you do:
come to the temple tomorrow morning.” - “What if I don’t come?” - “You will come: mother asks. It’s a sin not to fulfill your parents’ words.”
And he came. And in confession he was literally shaking with sobs, saying that he kicked his mother out of the house. She lived with strangers and soon died. He even found out later, he didn’t even bury it.
“And in the evening I met his mother for the last time.” She was very happy. The scarf she was wearing was white, but before that it was dark. She thanked him very much and said that her son was forgiven, since he repented and confessed, and that she had already seen him. Then I myself, in the morning, went to his address. Neighbors said he died yesterday and they took him to the morgue.
This is the story of Father Pavel. But I, a sinner, think: it means that the mother was given the ability to see her son from the place where she was after her earthly death, which means she was
given to know the time of his son's death. This means that her prayers there were so fervent that she was given the opportunity to incarnate and ask the priest to confess and give communion to the unfortunate servant of God. After all, it’s so scary - to die without repentance, without communion. And most importantly: it means that she loved him, loved her son, even this drunken one who drove out his own mother. This means that she was not angry, she was sorry, and, already knowing more than all of us about the fate of sinners, she did everything to ensure that this fate passed her son. She pulled him out from the bottom of sin. It is she, and only she, by the power of her love and prayer.
Stories by Vladimir Nikolaevich Krupin
Vladimir Nikolaevich KRUPIN was born on September 7, 1941 in the village of Kilmez Kirov region. In 1974, he published his first book, “Grains,” for which he was accepted into the Writers’ Union, after which he went into creative work.
Author of the stories “Velikoretskaya Font”, “ Living water", "In all Ivanovskaya", "The Coachman's Tale", "Glory to God for everything", "One of these days or earlier" and others. latest works are closely connected with the life of the Church: “Orthodox ABC”, “Russian Saints”, “Children’s church calendar", "Consecration of the Throne", "Fishers of Men".
The works of Vladimir Krupin invariably arouse the interest of readers. The writer organically combines the problems of “secular” life with Orthodox ethics. His heroes are people who seek, suffer, and find it difficult to comprehend their destiny. The writer is convinced that the path to a full, harmonious existence runs through love, kindness and finding true faith. Each of the heroes comes to this in their own, sometimes very winding and bizarre way.
In Seryozha's class, many of the children did not have fathers. That is, they were alive, but lived separately. Some were in prison, some went somewhere and did not leave an address. Serezha’s father came once a month and brought gifts. He takes out a toy, they play checkers, and he soon leaves. He won't even drink tea. Mom and grandmother were sitting in the kitchen at that time. IN Lately Father began to give Seryozha money. The grandmother grumbled: “Look how cleverly he managed to pay off his son.”
But Seryozha loved his father. And his mother, it was felt, loved him too, although she never asked him to stay. She didn’t take her father’s money from Seryozha. What does he need: they already bought him ice cream.
“Let’s take the money to the church,” Seryozha suggested. He and his mother loved going to church.
“Come on,” my mother immediately agreed. - And it’s time for you to finally go to confession.
What are his sins? - Grandma intervened. -Where are you taking him?
Let's go, all together, grandma! - said Seryozha.
“I’ve lived a century and I’ll live somehow,” answered the grandmother. - I worked honestly, didn’t steal, didn’t drink wine, didn’t smoke - what kind of confession do I have?
Mom just sighed. In the evening, he and Seryozha read, in addition to the evening prayers, an akathist to the Guardian Angel, and in the morning they got up early, didn’t eat or drink anything, and went to church.
What should I tell my father? - Seryozha was worried.
Say what he asks. You yourself know what you have sinned about. You're arguing with grandma.
She's more of a debater than I am! - Seryozha exclaimed. - She swears so much in vain!
Now you’re judging,” my mother remarked. - Even if grandma is wrong, you can’t blame her. She's the same old man. You will live to be her age, it remains to be seen what you will be like.
They bought candles in the church and went to the right aisle, where confession soon began. At first, Father Victor read a common prayer and sternly asked whether they had been treated by psychics, whether they had attended the sermons of visiting guest performers and various sectarians. Then he read the prayer again, saying from time to time: “State your names.” And Seryozha, along with everyone else, hurriedly, in order to be on time, said: “Sergey.”
In front of Seryozha stood a girl his age, maybe a little older. In her hands she held a piece of paper from a notebook, on which was written large: “My sins.”
Of course, it was not good to peek, but Seryozha involuntarily read it, reassuring himself that it was like an exchange of experience. It was written on the piece of paper: “I was too lazy to go to kindergarten for my brother. I was lazy to wash the dishes. I was too lazy to study my homework. I drank milk on Friday.”
Seryozha read it and gasped. No, his sins were worse. He ran away from classes with the guys to the cinema. The movie was adult and indecent. What about the dishes? Seryozha is not that lazy, but he is stalling for time. He knows that his grandmother is forcing him, and then she will wash it herself. And yesterday they sent him to the store, and he said that he needed to learn his homework, and he chatted a whole hour on the phone with Yulia, all the teachers were laughed at.
Well, Serezha’s mother went to see her father. It's obvious that she's crying. The priest covers her bowed head with an epitrachelion, baptizes her from above and releases her. Seryozha gathered his courage, crossed himself and approached the priest. When he asked about his sins, Seryozha suddenly burst out of his own accord:
Father, how can we pray for dad to live with us all the time?
Pray, dear child, pray with your heart. The Lord will give through faith and prayers.
And the priest talked with Seryozha for a long time.
And then there was communion. And these solemn words “The servant of God Sergius takes communion. »
And at this time the choir sang: “Receive the Body of Christ, taste the immortal source.” Seryozha took communion, kissed the cup, and with crossed arms walked up to the table, where a gentle old woman handed him a tiny silver ladle with sweet water and soft prosphora.
At home, a joyful Seryozha burst into his grandmother’s room and shouted:
Grandmother! You would know how many sins I have! And you said it! Do not believe? But let's go, let's go together next time.
And in the evening my dad suddenly called. And Seryozha talked to him for a long time. And at the end he said:
Dad, it’s not interesting to talk on the phone. Let's go without the phone. Dad, I don’t need money and I don’t need toys. Just come. Will you come?
No, just come,” said Seryozha.
In the evening Seryozha prayed for a long time.
“A mother’s prayer will reach you from the bottom of the sea” - of course, everyone knows this proverb. But how many people believe that this proverb was not said for rhetorical purposes, but is absolutely true, and has been confirmed by countless examples over many centuries?
Father Pavel, a monk, told me an incident that happened to him recently. He told it as if everything was as it should have been. This incident struck me, and I will retell it; I think that it is surprising not only for me.
On the street, a woman approached Father Pavel and asked him to go see her son. Confess. She gave the address.
“I was in a hurry,” said Father Pavel, “and didn’t have time that day.” Yes, I must admit, I forgot the address. And a day later, early in the morning, she met me again, very excited, and urgently asked, directly begged me to go to my son. For some reason I didn’t even ask why she didn’t come with me. I went up the stairs and rang the bell. The man opened it. Very unkempt, young, it’s immediately obvious that he’s a heavy drinker. He looked at me impudently: I was in vestments. I said hello and said: your mother asked me to come to you. He jumped up: “Okay, lie, my mother died five years ago.” And on the wall there is her photograph among others. I point to the photo and say: “This is exactly the woman who asked to visit you.” He said with such a challenge: “So you came from the other world for me?” “No,” I say, “that’s it for now. But you do what I tell you: come to the temple tomorrow morning.” - “What if I don’t come?” - “You will come: mother asks. It’s a sin not to fulfill your parents’ words.”
And he came. And in confession he was literally shaking with sobs, saying that he kicked his mother out of the house. She lived with strangers and soon died. He even found out later, he didn’t even bury it.
And in the evening I met his mother for the last time. She was very happy. The scarf she was wearing was white, but before that it was dark. She thanked him very much and said that her son was forgiven, since he repented and confessed, and that she had already seen him. In the morning I went to his address myself. Neighbors said he died yesterday and they took him to the morgue.
This is the story of Father Pavel. But I, a sinner, think: this means that the mother was given the ability to see her son from the place where she was after her earthly death, which means that she was given the opportunity to know the time of her son’s death. This means that her prayers there were so fervent that she was given the opportunity to incarnate and ask the priest to confess and give communion to the unfortunate servant of God. After all, it’s so scary - to die without repentance, without communion. And most importantly: it means that she loved him, loved her son, even this drunken one who drove out his own mother. This means that she was not angry, she was sorry, and, already knowing more than all of us about the fate of sinners, she did everything to ensure that this fate passed her son. She pulled him out from the bottom of sin. It is she, and only she, by the power of her love and prayer.
Times have passed, deadlines remain
“Times have passed, but deadlines remain,” this is what Grandma Lisa says.
She began to say this when she noticed that there was more oil in her “annual” lamp. That is, no more oil, but there was enough of it for longer time. Previously, the lamp was refilled on Easter, and it burned until the next Easter, exactly a year. And now the same amount of oil is poured, and the lamp burns until the Ascension, that is, More than a month. What is the conclusion? From here the grandmother deduces that times have shortened, accelerated, everything is beginning to rush towards the end of the world.
In this, her grandson Seryozha agrees with the grandmother, as well as the grandmother’s “antediluvian”, as she says, acquaintance, the old father Rostislav. He no longer serves, lives nearby and slowly, with a cane, comes to visit.
They sit with their grandmother over tea for many hours and remember past life. Seryozha sits quietly and listens to the old people - and comes to the thought that life used to be hard, but good, now life has become easier, but harder. How so? And like this.
Previously, sister,” says the priest, “you serve the liturgy and don’t know whether the servants of the Antichrist will let you finish the service.” But then you know that Christ is in all your parishioners. And now you serve and serve, and then you see your own parishioners at some devilish gathering.
“It’s a sin on them,” Grandma Lisa reassures. - You and I don’t need to hold on to the earth, we need to look at the sky with fear.
The whole earth will burn, the whole earth will burn,” says the priest and rises with difficulty. - And take me, servant of God Sergius, to the monastery of Father Victor.
Seryozha is happy about this. Father Victor's abode is a large apartment in a large house. But no matter what the apartment is, it is, of course, small for the priest’s family. There are so many people in it that Seryozha could not even count them. Even children, not to mention adults. Victor's father's wife, priest's mother Zoya, calls the family a camp, and father Rostislav - a collective farm.
Father Rostislav often stops, but does not sit on oncoming benches: then it is difficult to get up. He stands, leans on a stick with one hand, and slowly runs the other hand downwards over his light gray beard. He looks affectionately at Seryozha.
Come to my grave. Sit and pray. You will be a priest, you will serve a memorial service, or even visit.
In Victor’s father’s house, as in “Mogomora’s garden.” This is the expression of Mother Zoya. They already have over a dozen children. Everyone is here: Vanya, Masha, Grisha, Vladimir, Ekaterina, Nadezhda, Vasily, and Nina. You can’t remember everyone. Noise, screaming, clashes.
Mother complains to Father Rostislav about how much she gets.
Pray, says Father Rostislav. - Great work is a great reward.
When should I pray, when? - exclaims mother. - Father Victor is hopelessly in church or at church services, walking around old women, spoiling them, they could crawl into the church.
Mother, don’t sin, don’t sin! - Father Rostislav hastily interrupts. - Your husband, married to you, is a great hard worker. And there is always a time and place to pray to God. You probably don't leave the stove, do you?
And pray! And you probably peel the potatoes?
Here you go. You press with a knife, turn the potatoes and say: “Lord, have mercy,” “Lord, have mercy,” “Lord, have mercy.”
Here they, attracted by the quarrel, go to figure out what’s going on. Of course, the children did not share the toy.
It’s lying there - no one needs it,” says the old grandmother, the father’s mother. - And as one took it, the other one needs it.
Father Rostislav patiently explains to the children surrounding him:
Of course, you can take it away by force. But for every force there is another force. For a pistol - a gun, for a gun - a machine gun, for a machine gun - a machine gun, for a machine gun - a cannon. But this is not strength, but nonsense. And there is strength - strength to all forces. Which? This is humility. You want to play, but you must be strong, endure it, give in. Humble yourself. And you will win with patience. Let's check it now. Nina, did you quarrel? Because of what toy? Ahh, because of this machine. With whom? What is your name? Vasya? Grab it, pull as you pulled. So. Who is stronger? Vasya. Who has humility?
At Vaska's, at Vaska's! - Ninka shouts.
This is the female character,” says Father Rostislav. - To be you, Nina, regent.
Having bowed to Father Victor, Seryozha and Father Rostislav go outside. Seryozha discovers candy in his pocket, and father Rostislav finds gingerbread.
Seryozha sees off the priest and returns to Grandma Lisa.
She knits socks for him. He knits, strings endless loops onto the knitting needles and whispers at the same time: “Lord, have mercy,” “Lord, have mercy,” “Lord, have mercy.”
In seventh grade, a new student, Zhenya Kasatkin, came to us. He and his mother lived in the village and came to the village to cure Zhenya. But his illness - a congenital heart defect - was incurable, and he died from it the next year, in May.
There were straight A's in Zhenya's diary, only there was a blank in physical education, and although due to illness he did not study for two or three weeks, he still knew any lesson better than ours. I generally felt so good, I sat at the same desk with him. We became friends. Our friendship was uneven; he could not keep up with us, but in everything else he was ahead. Fountain pens were rare back then; he was the first to invent a homemade one. He took a thin, thin wire, wound it on a needle and attached the resulting spring to the bottom of the feather. If there were more such springs, then the pen would take up so much ink at once that it would write whole lesson. He gave me such an eternal pen as a gift. And I asked:
What is the name of your illness?
He said. I wrote on the blotter: “Ham of the Heart.” It seemed so witty to me that I did not notice his offense.
Spring came. When the water in the stream beyond the outskirts entered the banks, we began to go to it to stab barbels. Barbels - small fish - lived under the stones. One day I called Zhenya. He was delighted. His mother was not at home, and Zhenya, looking at me, went barefoot. The earth had already warmed up, but the water in the stream was very cold, the stream ran from a coniferous forest, and at the bottom, especially under the cliffs, there was still rough ice. There was one fork for two.
To show off my dexterity to Zhenya, I climbed first. It took a lot of patience to approach from behind without spooking. The barbels stood with their heads against the current. As luck would have it, nothing worked for me, stupid haste got in the way.
Zhenya went forward, tracked down the barbel and carefully speared it onto a fork, it was plump, almost the size of a finger. And I climbed out onto the shore and ran to warm my feet. Zhenya did much better; he wandered and wandered along ice water, carefully lifting flat stones. The jar was filling up.
The sun went down and it became cold. I was frozen even on the shore, but what was it like for him, walking knee-deep in water? Finally, he climbed ashore.
“You go run,” I advised. - You'll warm up.
But how could he run - with a bad heart? I would like to rub his feet. Yes, in the end, at least tell his mother that he was cold, but he didn’t tell me where we were, he gave all the mustaches to me. He was shaking from the cold, but he was very pleased that he didn’t leave me behind, even better.
He was again admitted to the hospital.
Since he often lay there, I didn’t think that this time it was because of our fishing.
We ran to the meadows for wild onions and on the way we stopped at the hospital. Zhenya stood in the window, we shouted whether to bring him some wild onions. He wrote on a piece of paper and applied it to the glass: “Thank you. I have everything".
We've already started swimming! - we shouted. - On Popovskoye Lake.
He smiled and nodded his head. We fell away from the window sill and rushed off. From the gate I looked back - he was standing in the window in a white shirt and looking after me.
If it’s impossible, then we didn’t bring him wild onions. The next day we went to eat wild onions - pine porridge, the next day to burn grass on Red Mountain, then again we ran for wild onions, but they had already become stale.
On the fourth day, during the first break, the teacher entered the class and said:
Get dressed, there will be no classes. Kasatkin died.
And everyone looked at my desk. We collected money. Not much, but the teacher added. Without waiting in line, we bought some rolls from the school cafeteria, put them in two briefcases and went.
In the house, in the hallway, there was a coffin. Zhenya’s mother, seeing us, began to wail. Another woman, who turned out to be the mother’s sister, began to explain to the teacher that they had not performed an autopsy - and it was clear that he had suffered enough.
Blinded by the transition from sunny day By the time it was dark, and the windows were curtained, we crowded around the coffin.
Stay, dear ones,” the mother said, “I don’t know anyone, Zhenechka kept telling me about you, stay with him, dear ones.” Do not be afraid.
I don't remember his face. Only a white veil and paper flowers. The mother’s sister took these flowers from the shrine and laid them along the board. Now I understand, Zhenya was handsome. Dark hair, high forehead, thin fingers on my hands, which then turned red in the icy water. His voice was quiet, accustomed to pain.
He read this book, but didn’t finish reading it, I’ll put it in his path.
And she put a book in the coffin, to Zhenya’s left hand, but I don’t remember which one, although we tried to read the title.
When we were about to leave, Zhenya’s mother took out a homemade eternal pen from his briefcase and asked us all to write our names.
I’ll go to church to remember Zhenya, and I’ll sign you all up for good health. Live, dear ones, for my Zhenya.
They walked up to the table and wrote on a piece of paper from their notebook. German language. There were enough pens for everyone. The teacher also wrote it. One name, no patronymic.
Zhenya Kasatkin was buried the next day. It was sunny again. Puddles began to appear closer to the cemetery, but still we did not place the coffin on the cart, we carried it in our arms, on long embroidered towels. They changed on the go and tried not to stop - the mother's sister watched over this - stopping with a dead person was a bad omen. Our teacher and another one led Zhenya’s mother by the arm.
And when they began to lower the coffin on the same towels, then Kolka and I, who was the only one of all the boys crying - he was older than us, an eternal repeater, and Zhenya studied with him - Kolka and I jumped into the grave and accepted the coffin: Kolka in headboard, I am at the feet.
Then everyone came up and threw a handful of wet earth.
And, having already returned to the village, we could not leave, we came to the school and stood with the whole class on the sports ground. A wide bench stretched along the fence, with ice still remaining under it. One of the guys started kicking this ice. The rest too.
But I still found wanderers. Although I didn't know they were called that. An old man walked through our village and asked to spend the night with us. We let everyone in. Yes, almost everyone was hospitable back then. Grandmother asked him where he should lay the bed; it was evening. But he said that he would lie down in the hayloft, stay until the morning, and in the morning, so as not to wake up anyone, he would leave. Then he called us over and said: “If you want, I’ll tell you a fairy tale.” And listen, we were great hunters, how much did they get? We sat down.
“I was passing the cemetery,” he said, “and they showed me the grave of a nun. She was cursed by people, but forgiven by God. And everything about her was revealed only after her death. She came from a wealthy family. One Daughter. And just to be a girl, the mother died. Buried. My father was very sad and decided to go to a monastery. And he said to his daughter: you are an adult girl, prominent, people are already looking at you, choose yourself good man according to your heart and get married. And she suddenly says to him: “I’ll go with you.” But there was no nunnery nearby, and she didn’t even want to go to a nunnery; she loved her father. And she asked so much that he backed down. He dressed her as a young man, brought her to the monastery, made a contribution and asked to be accepted with his son. He, he was old, was accepted right away, but they don’t take his son - why ruin his youth, let him, they say, go into the world and live like everyone else. Monasticism is a difficult matter. But she begged, and they accepted her, only they made her obedience very difficult - to clean the cesspools. She said that she was Marina, that her name was Marin. And she carried obedience with joy. She was well literate, studied the services, read clocks. The abbot of this monastery fell in love with Marina very much. The father did not live long and was buried.
Time has passed, the abbot says: I will take you to the exam at the Lavra, and there they will test your knowledge and give you a parish. You will be a priest. But she refused and asked to become a monk forever. And she was tonsured on Michaelmas Day with the name Michael. And this monk was already preparing for silence, when trouble happened.
This monastery had its own farm - plantings, a vegetable garden, and the monks worked there. About ten versts. And sometimes they spent the night there at an inn, so as not to walk far. And the rector, apparently, saved Mikhail for services. But others began to grumble, saying that they were working, but he was not. And Mikhail himself asked to go to work. But they were familiar, they did their lesson and left, but Mikhail (that is, Marina) did not have time and decided to stay and finish it later. And it was in this yard that I spent the night.
And the owner of the yard had a daughter of marriageable age. And it was on this day that he walked past a soldier, arrived late and asked to spend the night. He liked this daughter, and he persuaded her to sin, and then threatened that he would kill her if she spoke against him, and if anything happened, then let him point it at the monk.
And then it happened. My daughter became pregnant, it became noticeable. My father almost killed me. She said she was raped by a monk. Soon she gave birth. The father took her child (a boy was born) and brought it to the monastery. There he came to the abbot and laid him at his feet and pointed to Mikhail. The abbot became angry and immediately ordered Mikhail to take the child and leave the monastery. The monk said nothing, bowed, picked up the child from the floor and left. Where will it go?
So he lived near the gate for three years and fussed with the child. And he was so sorry that the monks themselves went to bow to the abbot and asked him to forgive. But he did not forgive.
And that soldier returned and began to ask the owner’s daughter to marry him. But, of course, with joy. Let's go get our son. But the monk does not give the child away, and the child himself does not leave him, he is used to it. Then the soldier ordered his wife to throw herself at the abbot’s feet and tell him that it was not the monk’s fault, that the child was the soldier’s. The abbot punished her for slander, and forgave the monk. So they took the child away. The child grew up and came running to see him.
The soldier treated his wife badly, beat her, and did not find peace with his father-in-law. He took over the yard, buried his father-in-law, kicked out his wife and child. And this wife herself went to the monastery and kept trying to see the monk, she liked him so much. She tried to intercept and persuaded you to leave the monastery, saying that the child considers you to be his father. The monk did not agree, then she said: they say, come on, God will forgive for love, let’s see each other secretly. But the monk did not agree to this either. And then she did what - she went to the abbot again, again threw herself at his feet and again said that the child was from a monk, who promised her a lot of money if she persuaded the soldier to take the sin upon herself. And - before she was blinded - she kissed the cross on that.
They called the monk and asked. But he, due to his rank, cannot swear and says: everything is your will. And again he was kicked out, and again he remained, as it were, with his son. And he brought him into the people, and taught him, but he (herself), whether life was easy, fell ill and died.
The monks asked the abbot to bury him in the monastery. But he ordered it to be taken to a worldly cemetery. And so - when they began to wash, they looked: the whole body was completely withered, a woman’s. That's when everything opened up. The rector himself performed the funeral service. And when the coffin was lowered into the grave, a thunderstorm struck. And lightning struck the inn and destroyed it.”
Here's the story. Neither I nor my mother know where and when it was. She also added that in the morning we guys ran to the wanderer, but he was no longer there. There were only gingerbread cookies and sugar lying in a clean rag, a gift.
So he had food. And at that time it was not easy, but he didn’t eat it, he gave it to the guys,” said my mother.
And I kept thinking about that time when this Marina-Marin was left alone at the gates of the monastery with a tiny child. How and what she fed him, how she warmed him with her warmth. No, apparently it’s still too early for me, I haven’t risen to the level of understanding such stories. So my whole role here is to convey what I heard. We’ll keep passing it on until we understand something.
Orthodox magazine "Transfiguration".
We are grateful to everyone for their support!
Without God, a nation is a crowd,
Or blind or stupid
Or, what’s even worse, -
And let anyone ascend the throne,
Speaking in a high syllable,
The crowd will remain a crowd
Until he turns to God!
". It is important to remember that the modern information environment closely monitors any news related to the Church. And here I would like to say not only about journalists - I would like to say in general about the people who represent the Church in the eyes of the laity, in the eyes secular society. We must pay special attention to the way of life, to the words that we utter, to the way we behave, because through the assessment of one or another representative of the Church, most often a clergyman, people form ideas about the entire Church. This, of course, is a wrong idea, but today, according to the law of the genre, it turns out that it is precisely some errors, irregularities in the actions or words of clergy that are instantly replicated and create a false, but attractive for many, picture, by which people determine their attitude towards Churches."Patriarch Kirill at the closing of V International Festival Orthodox media "Faith and Word"
“Freedom created such oppression as was experienced only during the Tatar period. And - most importantly - lies have so entangled all of Russia that you don’t see any light in anything. The press behaves in such a way that it deserves the rod, not to say the guillotine. Deceit, impudence, madness - everything mixed up in a suffocating chaos. Russia has disappeared somewhere: at least, I hardly see it. If it were not for the belief that all these are the judgments of the Lord, it would be difficult to survive this great test. I feel that there is no solid ground anywhere, there are volcanoes everywhere, except Cornerstone- Our Lord Jesus Christ. I place all my trust in Him.” Man must learn mercy most of all, for this is what makes him human. Many praise a man for his mercy(Proverbs 20:6). He who does not have mercy ceases to be a man. It makes you wise. And why are you surprised that mercy serves hallmark humanity? It is a sign of Divinity. Be merciful says the Lord, just as your Father is merciful(Luke 6:36). So, let us learn to be merciful both for these reasons, and especially for the fact that we ourselves have a great need for mercy. And let us not count as life the time spent without mercy.Copyright © 2012 Orthodox online magazine “TRANSFORMATION”
When I was little, there was great persecution of Orthodoxy. But still, Easter Day was very joyful. They painted eggs, the house smelled of cooking, they put on clean white shirts, still without cuffs, with wide sleeves. Out of fear, they did not allow the eggs to be taken outside, but how can you contain such joy in the hut - of course, we took them with us.
That year it was late Easter, it was warm, there was plenty of greenery. And we decided to take a swim that day. The first swim was always exciting. But I'm not talking about him.
We were already swimming, basking on the sand, when someone let me look through colored glass. I remember I walked away from everyone and looked - and shuddered: everything had become different. The whole world has become different. Everything was transformed, changed, everything became softer and sharper. And somehow it became quieter. The clouds froze, the sun slowed down, and you even felt cool. There was a daylight, a river, floating logs, yellow sand beyond the river, green and silver coltsfoot burdocks, long thin willow branches - everything seemed to have just appeared, peaceful, devoid of danger. It became impossible to drown in the river, a snake could not crawl out of the bushes, and it was impossible to fall off a cliff. It felt like time had stopped. I remember my delight, even the fact that I took an admiring and convulsive breath of air and stood there, not daring to rest and feeling very light.
And so it passed whole life, and this condition repeated.
My father died. And at that time I was in Italy, in Capri, at some international symposium. The main thing was not the symposium, not the reports for each other, but the fact that we are in Capri, that the weather is so good, that Vesuvius is visible. I swam with all my might, even though it was the end of November. But he knew, he knew that his father was terminally ill. Just before Italy, I went to Vyatka and, saying goodbye to him, promised to bring foreign drink. He hardly spoke anymore and just waved his hand.
They found me and said that something was wrong with my father. It was clear to everyone what exactly. Everything was somehow absurd and unnatural: to be among blooming greenery hanging everywhere, to sit on a terrace located far above a steep cliff into the sea, and suddenly these words that something was wrong with my father were being sought through the embassy. I went to get ready. They started calling Rome, Aeroflot. Fortunately, the delegation included a priest who spoke all languages. He, seeing how we were struggling and could not get through, began to call himself. I figured out on the map where this Aeroflot was, called the temple next to it, asked someone to go to the agency and answer us. Father ordered a ticket. I rushed to the ferry, down and down. On the way, I broke several bright pink branches - put them in the coffin. That’s what I thought: put it in a coffin. On the ferry, almost empty, lifting its stern as it left the bay and setting its course, looking at the silent Vesuvius, I suddenly said loudly:
Why are you, father, leaving me an orphan? - And he burst into tears.
In Naples, I told the taxi driver, as my father taught me: “Stazione per Roma,” which meant “Roman Station.” On the train I sat among the drinking and singing blacks, then the controller came and told me to move to another carriage: it turns out that I was in first class. There sat a cheerful old woman who spoke to me. I regretted that there was no priest for her.
Our ballet was on the plane to Moscow. Having jumped on tour, the ballerinas rested, lifting into the sky long legs in black tights.
From Sheremetyevo I immediately went to Yaroslavsky, bought a ticket to Vyatka on some mail and luggage train and trudged on it for almost a day, having as a companion a man who was returning from his mother-in-law’s funeral and was suffering either from the funeral or from the wake.
The Lord was merciful to the father: everything went well - both the funeral service, when in the Trinity Church across the Vyatka River there were no less than ten multi-colored coffins at once, and a good place in the cemetery, and there was even such a sign on that cloudy day: when they installed the cross, the clouds parted, and it fell to us, at the bottom of the well sunlight, and also, out of nowhere, a white dove flew in and sat on the cross.
Here... And soon I saw the same color and light that I spoke about at the beginning. It was in the early morning, half asleep and half awake. As if I were young and in love and as if I had gone on a spree. That’s exactly what I thought: I’ve been on a spree, my father is worried, I need to go home quickly, my father is waiting. And so I go home, here is our house: carved platbands, calm golden logs, the same roof, glowing from the inside. Not night and not day. No moon, no sun. Neither summer nor winter. Calm and quiet. And it's light all around. And clean, neat. The road is dusty, the dust is dark amber silk. The grass is bent, there is a quiet lake nearby. And I can breathe so freely, my soul is so calm, that I think: let me sit on the porch, my father is sleeping, I’ll come back a little later. That is, when I woke up, I realized that my father was waiting for me, but that I had not yet gone to him.
There is, there is one wonderful light and the golden color, that air, that silence, that peace of mind that I saw and felt. And I really want to go there and stay there. But apparently it's not time yet. Apparently, you still have to earn it.
ANNOUNCEMENTS ON POSTS
It seems in Tyumen, I heard about one teenager. And he never left my memory. Although the case, unfortunately for us, is a common one - his parents did not live peacefully with each other, quarreled, and things were heading towards divorce.
The boy loved his parents, and suffered greatly, to the point of tears, from their quarrels. But this did not enlighten them either. Alone with everyone, the boy asked them to make peace, but both father and mother spoke badly about each other, and tried to lure the boy to their side. “You don’t yet know what a scoundrel he is,” the mother said, and the father called her a fool. And soon, already in his presence, they called each other names in every possible way, without mincing words.
They talked about exchanging their apartment as if it was a done deal. Both assured that the boy would not suffer in any way: as he had here separate room, so it will be. Whoever he lives with. And that he will always be able to go to any of them. They will find exchange options in their area, will not contact the newspaper, but will post advertisements themselves, on nearby streets.
One evening, my mother came home from work and brought a stack of yellow pieces of paper with advertisements for apartment exchange printed on them. She told her father to immediately go and put them up. She handed me the glue and a brush.
The father immediately pulled on his cloak, grabbed his beret and went out.
And you - go to sleep! - the mother shouted at her son.
They lived on the first floor. The boy went to his room, opened the window, and quietly climbed out. And as he was, in only his shirt, he ran after his father, but did not try to persuade him not to put up advertisements, he understood that his father would not listen, but crept, hiding, from behind and watched. He noticed on which pole or fence, or at the bus stop, his father stuck yellow pieces of paper, waited for the time, ran up to them and tore them off. With hatred he crumpled up the advertisements, tore them up, threw them into trash cans, trampled under his feet like some kind of reptile, or threw the text down into puddles. So that no one could even read the advertisements.
He also quietly returned to the house. The next morning he developed a fever and coughed. His parents took turns sitting with him. He noticed that they had stopped arguing. When the phone rang, they picked it up, expecting that they would ask about exchanging an apartment. But no, no one asked.
The boy deliberately did not take medications, hid them, and then threw them away. But still, after a week, the temperature leveled off, the doctor said that tomorrow I could go to school.
He waited in the evening when his parents were asleep, stripped down to a T-shirt and shorts and opened the window. And he stood in a draft. So long that they even felt the draft. The mother was the first to suspect something and came to her son’s room. She screamed at her father. The boy felt bad. He struggled and shouted that he would still be sick, that he would die, but there was no need to exchange the apartment, there was no need to separate. He was literally in a fit of sobbing.
Nobody will call you! - he shouted. - I’ll still tear down all the ads! Why are you doing this? For what? Then why am I here? Then you all lied, right? They lied, that there would be a little sister, that we would all go to the village together, did they lie? Oh you!
And then only his parents understood something.
But then I don't know. I don’t know, and I don’t want to lie. But the fact that the little boy was smarter than his parents is for sure. After all, they met out of love, because he was so smart and handsome son could not have been born not out of love. If something later happened in their relationship, it was not fatal. If even the Lord Himself forgives sins, then why can’t we forgive each other’s offenses? Especially for the sake of the children.
DAD REX
From childhood until now I have had and still have a lot of familiar dogs. It wouldn’t be better: it’s so hard to remember each one. Which one was killed, which one was poisoned, and which one died itself, and was dying so slowly, weakened so terribly and for a long time, looked at you so devotedly and guiltily, and you couldn’t help, they already took you to the veterinarians, they already tried everything, that you just wanted one thing - I would rather be exhausted. And I remember every one.
And now I have Naida. Honestly, it’s not mine, it’s my neighbor’s, but when I come to Nikolskoye, she doesn’t leave my side. I’m sitting at the table, I look up - Naida is on the porch. Even one look from me is enough for her to be happy. She's such a huge redhead.
In winter she runs freely around the yard, in summer her lot is in a kennel and a chain. The owner is very protective of the purebred Naida from persistent suitors, because where will she go with the puppies, and it’s a shame to drown her. Our fences are thick and our gates are reliable. But last fall, a stray dog somehow found its way into Naida’s house. Terribly dirty, shaggy, funny. On the face there are red mustaches, long white eyebrows, ears sticking out in different directions. The wool is sparse and harsh. I found out he was Rex when I heard the boys on the street whistling at him.
Rex barks at everyone. And on me. It's even insulting. When I bring something to Naida, I don’t forget him either. But how did he get over the fence? The owner searched for a long time and finally found a tunnel in the far corner of the garden, in the raspberry thickets. Of course, Rex dug. She filled the tunnel with stones.
Naida brought fourteen puppies. Five of them turned out to be non-tenants, but the rest also need to be fed. Naida lost so much weight that she became a skeleton covered in red skin. To sometimes take a little break from the children, she would jump onto the roof of the kennel, and they would be indignant below. Then they took this first height in their lives.
Naida ate a lot. It’s impossible to say how much the puppies began to eat when they started teething.
Every day I cook a bucket for them,” says the neighbor.
I, too, participated in their cultivation as best I could. They threshed everything: stale bread, dry pasta, expired canned food. They began to freely come to me and graze in the courtyard. As soon as I go out, something sparkles. I look - this is our old saucepan. They made jam in it a long time ago, forgot it on the stove, and it all burned out. They couldn’t clean the pan and threw it away. And so, the puppies took hold of it, scraped it outside and inside, cleaned it, and it’s already sparkling.
