An Ordinary Miracle

;Wondrous are the ways of the Lord.
;I’d heard a rumor that the church of the Mother of God-Alexievsky Monastery housed a miraculous icon of the Virgin Mary. I really wanted to see it for myself.
;Alas, there was nothing of the sort in the main hall—just generic, modern replicas. As for the second aisle, closer to the altar, getting in wasn’t simple; a bench had been placed across the entrance in a rather unambiguous way.
;Once, a cleaning lady was mopping the floor there and had shifted the bench slightly on a diagonal. The moment I tried to slip past, a voice barked right from behind my back:
"Mother, where do you think you’re barging in? Can’t you see it’s closed?!"
You don't mess around in an Orthodox church.
;Another time, I decided to take the legal route. Peering through the small window of the church shop, I asked the woman selling candles and small crosses:
"Excuse me, please, is there a miraculous icon of the Mother of God here? People say there is. Is it true?"
The woman popped her head, wrapped in a scarf, out of the window and shouted:
"Nastasya! Hey, Nastasya! Where’s that icon that was streaming myrrh?"
Well, look at that! So the rumors weren't groundless after all.
;Another woman emerged from the back room, holding a mop.
"Why, it’s in the baptistery."
Passing by me, she noted sternly:
"Father doesn’t like people loitering in the baptistery for no reason. I’ll let you in, but only for five minutes."
Wow, talk about a stroke of luck! Breathless with joy, pulling my hood over my head, I scurried after her, trying to keep up.
;We approached a discreet door near a window, opposite the iconostasis. Behind it lay a small, rather cluttered room.
"Over there," the woman nodded toward something behind my back. "Say your prayers, but don't be long," she said, and left.
;I turned around. The icon hung right by the door, not in the center, completely without pomp. It was very large, old, with a complicated biography. I understood why they kept it out of sight: it wasn’t as pristine and grand as the ones in the main iconostasis. The paint was peeling in places, or even scraped off, as if on purpose. The silver casing, though present, wasn't particularly ornate—rather simple, even.
;But I didn’t doubt for a single second that the icon was miraculous. I don’t know what you call the organ inside one's chest that senses these things, but a vibration emanated from it. It felt much like the purring of a mother cat with her kittens, accompanied by a state of absolute, delicious serenity and quiet joy. It made me want to smile.
;I knelt there, looking at the Mother of God, and the Mother of God was looking at the Infant. I had a vivid sensation that it was me in Her embrace, instead of the Child, and that She was looking at me with such profound love. Well, yes—She is my Mother too, after all.
;I thought of my own mother, an elderly woman with a difficult character and a mountain of ailments. Let her be in the Infant's place too; let the Mother of God adopt her as well!
;Then came my daughter’s turn. We hadn't spoken in a long time; unfortunately, that’s a separate, painful story. I suppose I’m not a very good mother.
;Except the Mother of God exists, and Her motherhood is vast enough for all of us—crooked, broken, flawed, and awkward as we are. She loves us just the same. Who else could I bring to Her?..
One by one, I placed everyone dear to me in the Virgin's arms as Her child—my husband, my father, my beloved aunt, my friend, my student... And then, just everyone else in the world, all at once...
;Right from my knees, I reached out and pressed my Rosary to the miraculous icon, silently asking Her to bless my homemade beads.
"Give me a sign that we are all under Your Protection," I asked the Mother of God, and crossed myself.
;Suddenly, I noticed someone watching me through the narrow crack of the half-open door. A focused, solemn gaze caught me off guard, and I sprang to my feet, wiping the foolish smile off my face.
;An elderly priest was observing me intently through his glasses. He was short and frail.
He must have noticed that I crossed myself the Catholic way! But how was I to know someone was spying on me! Surely the Mother of God doesn't care whether I am Orthodox or Catholic.
Bowing respectfully to the priest, I chose to get out of the baptistery, steering clear of any trouble.
;Yet, I didn't want to leave the church just yet. Sitting on the edge of a bench by the wall, I leisurely examined the icons on the iconostasis, one by one.
;To my left, a large Crucifix towered over me, surrounded by burning candles. Two women in black headscarves stood frozen in silence around the suffering Jesus on the cross.
In my mind, I also went through the list of all my own departed—relatives, friends, acquaintances—their numbers growing with each passing year. And how many people are dying right now, on the southern fronts...
Grant rest, O Lord, to the souls of all who died fighting on the side of Good...
Everything has become devilishly entangled. It is beyond comprehension what is happening to the world... God, where are You?!!
;Sniffling and wiping away a tear, I walked out of the church.
Outside, it was cool and sunny, and my soul felt bright and peaceful. I walked as if I weren’t alone: I was invisibly accompanied by the Madonna and Child. It felt as though I had been freed from the suffocating anxiety for my loved ones, because I had handed them over into safe hands...
;"Wait," a voice called out from behind.
I turned around.
Standing before me was that very same priest, with a long grey beard, wearing a monastic cowl.
"Here, take this. This is for you," he said, handing me a heavy plastic bag with handles.
"For me?! Why? What for? What is it?" I stammered, utterly bewildered.
"It is deeply prayed-in," the priest said softly.
;I peered inside the bag. There was an icon—a real, church icon.
"But... why me?" I still couldn't believe this was actually happening.
"You prayed well," the priest explained without a smile.
“How do you know how I prayed?” I wanted to ask, but the black figure was already walking away.
"Wait! What is your name?" I shouted.
"What for... God knows," the priest replied over his shoulder, without slowing down, heading back toward the church.
;I pulled the large icon in its wooden frame out of the bag.
Through the glass, the Savior looked at me—sternly and sorrowfully. From the opening of the silver decorative casing, His palm was visible: He was blessing me personally. I was holding not just a beautiful icon, but something much greater: it was a completely concrete, meaningful message, addressed not to just anyone, but specifically to me... What did I do to deserve this?! Am I even worthy?..
;...I cried all the way home, practically sobbing, paying no attention to the passersby.
I didn't even understand the reason for my tears. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I wasn't crying because things were bad, but quite the opposite. I think in those moments, I was truly happy.
Because in dark, turbulent times, it is so important to suddenly feel that everything is under the control of the Almighty.
;The icon settled in the house where I grew up, and where my mother lived now.
Suddenly, the cramped, dark apartment felt brighter and warmer. From the "beautiful corner," the Savior Himself watched over us unblinkingly, His hand frozen in an inexhaustible blessing.
;How could I thank that priest who had given me such an unexpected and priceless gift? Only through prayer, perhaps.
I needed to find out his name.
;I contacted Deacon Dmitry—after all, he had studied at the Tomsk Seminary and lived in the dormitory of that exact monastery—and described the priest’s appearance.
"I don't remember anyone like that," Dmitry replied, to my utter astonishment.
Then I wrote to an Orthodox priest I knew. By the way, this strange story made a deep impression on him.
"I asked around among my acquaintances, but there is no priest fitting that description there," he wrote back.
;Who was it, then? Maybe an Angel in the guise of a priest? And why not!
;I would constantly go up to the icon, take it in my hands, embrace it, and turn to the Lord for support and help, not least bit ashamed that I was taking advantage of His mercy—after all, He is my personal Savior, since He came to me Himself.
;For instance, here was a pressing issue: my mother suffered so terribly from pain in her hands that she slept very little and fitfully, even though she desperately wanted to sleep.
Why not ask my Lord? No need to be shy, we’re all family here.
"Please, Jesus, grant my mother a peaceful night's sleep, at least for tonight, I beg You!"
Well... to my surprise, my mother slept from evening right through until morning.
A miracle?! To me, yes. But not to my mother; she doesn't believe there's a connection.
;And yet, how I wished my mother could appreciate the supernatural nature of what happened at the church. In her own way, she was shocked when I showed up with the icon, but not by the miracle—rather by the fact that her daughter, whom she had always considered wayward and worthless, had suddenly been given a gift, and such a valuable and beautiful one, and in a church of all places.
;Still, I decided not to take the icon of the Savior with me to Thailand. Let it stay with my mother, let it help her and keep us connected across the distance.
As for myself, I took a photo of the Savior's icon on my smartphone. So, He is always with me.
;Koh Samui, August 2023