A Personal Savior

;Koh Samui, August 2023
;I had heard out of the corner of my ear that there was a miracle-working icon of the Mother of God in the church of the Theotokos-Alexievsky Monastery. I really wanted to see it...
;Alas, there was nothing of the sort in the main hall—just modern work everywhere. And you couldn't just wander into the second side-chapel closer to the altar area; a bench was placed there in a rather unambiguous, blocking way. Once, a cleaning lady was washing the floor there and moved the bench slightly diagonally. The moment I tried to poke my head in, someone barked from behind my back:
"Matushka, where do you think you’re pressing 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. Peeking into the window of the church shop, I asked the woman selling candles and crosses:
"Excuse me, please, is there a miracle-working icon of the Mother of God here? People say there is. Is it true?"
;The auntie stuck her head, wrapped in a kerchief, out of the window and shouted:
"Nastasya! Hey, Nastasya! Where is that icon that was streaming myrrh?"
Well, look at that! So the rumors weren't groundless.
;Another woman came out of the back room holding a mop.
"Why, it’s in the baptistery."
Passing by me, she noted strictly: "Father doesn't like it when people rummage around the baptistery for no reason. I’ll let you in, but only for five minutes."
;Wow, talk about a stroke of luck! Gasping with joy, pulling my hood over the crown of my head, I hurried after her, trying to keep up.
;We approached an inconspicuous door near a window, opposite the iconostasis. Behind it lay a small, rather cluttered room.
"Over there," the woman indicated with a nod of her head somewhere behind my back. "Pray, but not for long," and she walked out.
;I turned around. The icon hung by the door, not in the center, devoid of any special pomp. It was very large, old, and clearly possessed a complex history. I understood why they kept it away: it wasn't as grand and polished as the ones on the iconostasis. The paint was peeling in places, or even scraped off, as if on purpose. The riza (revetment), though silver, wasn't particularly ornate—even a bit simple.
;Yet, not for a single second did I doubt that the icon was miracle-working. I don't know what kind of organ it is, somewhere deep in my chest, that allowed me to feel it. A vibration emanated from it, much like the purring of a mother cat with kittens, accompanied by a complete, most delightful peace and quiet joy. It made me want to smile.
;I knelt down, looking at the Mother of God, and the Mother of God looked at the Infant. I clearly imagined myself in Her embrace instead of the Infant, with Her looking at me with such profound love. Well, yes, She is my Mother too.
;I remembered my own mother, an elderly woman with a difficult character and a heap of illnesses. 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—alas, that is a separate, painful story. Perhaps I am not a very good mother. But then, there is the Mother of God, and Her motherhood is vast enough for all of us—crooked, clumsy, unsuccessful, awkward, just as we are. She loves us regardless. Who else could I bring to Her?..
;One by one, I placed everyone dear to me in the position of a child next to the Mother of God—my husband, my father, my beloved aunt, my friend, my student... And then, just everyone in the world, one after another...
;Right from my knees, I reached out and pressed my Rosary against the miracle-working icon, silently asking Her to bless my handmade beads.
"Give me a sign that we are all under Your Protection," I asked the Mother of God, and crossed myself.
;Suddenly, I noticed that someone was watching me through a narrow crack in the ajar door. A watchful, serious gaze caught me off guard, and I jumped to my feet, brushing the foolish smile off my face.
;An elderly priest in glasses, short and slender, was studying me intently. 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 preferred to get out of the baptistery, keeping out of harm's way.
;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 loomed, surrounded by burning candles. Around the suffering Jesus on the cross, two women in black kerchiefs stood frozen in silence.
;In my mind, I also listed all of my own—departed relatives, friends, and acquaintances—their numbers growing with each passing year. And so many people are dying right now on the southern fronts...
O Lord, grant rest to the souls of all who died fighting on the side of Good... Everything has become devilishly tangled. It is beyond comprehension what is happening... 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 serene. It was as if I wasn't walking alone: I was invisibly accompanied by the Madonna and Child. I felt liberated from the oppressive anxiety for my loved ones, for I had handed them over into reliable 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 koukoulion (hood).
"Here, take this. This is for you," and he handed me a heavy plastic bag with handles.
;"For me?! Why? What for? What is it?" I mumbled in utter confusion.
"It has been prayed over deeply," the priest said softly.
;I peered inside the bag. There was an icon—a real, church-grade one.
"But... why me?" I simply 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 his pace, moving back toward the church.
;I pulled the large icon in its wooden kiot (shrine frame) out of the bag. Through the glass, the Savior looked at me strictly and sorrowfully. Through the opening of the silver decorative riza, His palm was visible—He was blessing me personally. I held in my hands 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 the entire way home, even sobbed, paying no attention to the passersby coming my way. I myself didn't understand the reason for my tears. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I wasn't crying because I felt bad, but quite the contrary. It seems that in those moments, I was truly happy. Because in troubled times, it is so crucial to suddenly feel that everything is under the control of the Almighty.
;The icon took up residence in the house where I grew up, and where my mother now lived. In the cramped and dark apartment, it suddenly became brighter and warmer. From the "beautiful corner," the Savior Himself watched over us relentlessly, never taking His eyes away, His hand frozen in an inexhaustible blessing.
;How could I thank that priest who had given me such an unexpected and priceless gift? Perhaps only through prayer. 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 very monastery—and described the priest’s appearance.
"I don't remember anyone like that," Dima replied, to my absolute astonishment.
;Then I wrote to an Orthodox priest I knew. By the way, this strange story made a big impression on him.
"I asked around among my acquaintances, but there is no priest with those features there," he wrote back to me.
;Who was it then? Perhaps an Angel in the guise of a priest? Why not!
;I constantly approached the icon, took it in my hands, embraced it, and turned to the Lord for support and help, not at all ashamed that I was abusing His mercy—after all, He is my personal Savior, since He came to me Himself.
;For instance, here was a pressing issue: my mother suffers so much from pain in her hands that she sleeps little and poorly, even though she longs for rest. Why not ask my Lord? No need to be shy, we are all family here.
"Please, Jesus, grant mother a peaceful sleep, at least for tonight, I beg You!"
;Well... to my surprise, mother slept from evening until the very morning. A miracle?! For me, yes. But not for mother; she doesn't believe there is a connection. Yet, how I wished that mother too would appreciate the supernatural nature of what happened at the church. In her own way, she was also shocked when I turned up with the icon, but not by the miracle—rather by the fact that her daughter, whom she had always considered wayward and worthless, was suddenly given a gift, and such a valuable and beautiful one at that, and in a church of all places.
;And yet, I decided not to take the icon of the Savior with me to Thailand. Let it live with mother; let it help her and bind us together across the distance. For myself, I took a photo of the Savior’s icon on my smartphone. So, He is constantly with me.