A birch-log cross

The cross was fashioned from two tall birches. The trees were felled right here, deep in the taiga. A priest and a missionary from the Polish youth community worked intently with axes and hammers, their expressions far too grim—as if they were facing a real battle, not just a simple Way of the Cross prayer.

Naturally, when a human-sized cross is hammered together right before your eyes and then actually carried through the forest, the impression is entirely different, far more visceral and real. And yet, for me personally, there was something about it that felt like a role-playing game.

…I attended 'Vacations with God' for the first time, and certainly not out of deep faith. I simply had nowhere else to go with my little daughter that summer.

The upheavals of perestroika had caught many off guard. Everyone felt as though they had been cast adrift, abandoned to their fate. For my part, I was completely lost: hunger, unemployment, and the collapse of all my hopes and plans had pulled the ground right out from under my feet. And right around that time, my child and I received an invitation to 'Vacations with God.'

To live at a recreation center by the river without having to worry about food, to seize at least a couple of weeks of short Siberian summer, and to escape from our unresolved, pressing problems for a little while—of course, I agreed without a second thought. For that, I was ready to listen to any lectures and attend any church services. If God existed, it would be credited to my account; if not, all the better—no harm done.

…The cross was ready. The first group of believers already hoisted it onto their shoulders and carried it toward the camp exit, followed by the crowd chanting in sorrow. The plan was that after each Station, newcomers would take over the cross and carry it further.

Our mournful procession moved slowly along the narrow dirt road. Rare villagers coming in the opposite direction looked on with a mix of curiosity and ironic amusement at this strange religious gathering. Taking advantage of the fact that the groups weren't strictly assigned, I simply trailed at the very tail end, determined not to get involved in the whole affair at all.

…I didn't even realize how I ended up right underneath the cross. I looked up to see a thick birch log floating above me. It was borne on the shoulders of tall young men: one pair right in front and behind me, another on either side. They didn't need any help from me; they were handling it brilliantly on their own. But, let's be honest, to show complete unwillingness to take part in a shared endeavor felt somehow improper.

I hesitatingly raised my hand and brushed the wood...

And right then, something mysterious happened—something I still cannot explain from an ordinary point of view. I suddenly felt an immense, unbearable weight; my arm actually began to ache. I was simply crushed, morally and physically. And this was just from touching the Cross! No, ordinary gravity had nothing to do with it; I had collided with something supernatural and mystical.

Dazed, I couldn't think of anything else, just mechanically dragging myself along beneath the Crucifix. Yet the thought of taking my hand away never even crossed my mind. Something told me that this weight and this pain were not meant to harm me, that I needed them for some reason. My soul was suddenly illuminated by a quiet realization: *this is how You send me a sign; You exist; You are with me.*

And I also understood that my life would never be the same again. When I emerged from beneath that Cross, everything would change.

Finally, the procession stopped for another reading. Soaked through and utterly exhausted, I dragged myself away and stood catching my breath. So much for a role-playing game...

…Decades have passed since then. Yes, life hasn't become any easier. But I no longer feel like a solitary soul adrift in a chain of random coincidences.