I dedicate this book to my dear granddaughter, Elizabeth, and to all who were born in the early years of the twenty-first century, with hope and love.
© Dyachenko Alexander, priest, 2011
© Nikea Publishing House, 2011
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Roadside checks
Shortly before the New Year my good friend sad news came. In one of the small towns in the neighboring region, his friend was killed. As soon as I found out, I immediately rushed there. It turned out to be nothing personal. Big, strong man about fifty, returning home late at night, he saw four young guys trying to rape a girl. He was a warrior, a real warrior who went through many hot spots.
He interceded without hesitation, immediately rushed into battle. He repulsed the girl, but someone contrived and stabbed him in the back. The blow was fatal. The girl decided that now they would kill her too, but they did not. They said:
- Live for now. Enough and one for the night - and left.
When my comrade returned, I tried my best to express my condolences to him, but he replied:
- Don't comfort me. Such a death for my friend is a reward. It would be difficult for him to dream of a better death. I knew him well, we fought together. There is a lot of blood on his hands, maybe not always justified. After the war, he did not live very well. You know what time it was. For a long time I had to convince him to be baptized, and, thank God, he was baptized not so long ago. The Lord took him the most glorious death for a warrior: on the battlefield, protecting the weak. A beautiful Christian demise.
I listened to my friend and remembered the incident that happened to me.
Then there was a war in Afghanistan. In the active army, due to losses, it was necessary to make urgent replacements. Regular officers from the units were transferred there, and in their place were called for a period of two years in store. Shortly before that, I returned from the army and found myself among these "lucky ones." Thus, I had to repay my debt to the Motherland twice.
But since military unit, in which I served, was not very far from my house, then everything turned out well for us. On weekends, I often came home. My daughter was a little over a year old, my wife did not work, and the salaries of the officers were then good.
I had to travel home by train. Sometimes in military uniform, sometimes in civilian clothes. Once, it was autumn, I returned to the unit. I arrived at the station about thirty minutes before the arrival of the electric train. It was getting dark, it was cold. Most of the passengers sat in the station building. Someone was dozing, someone was talking quietly. There were many men and young people.
Suddenly, quite suddenly, the door of the station flung open and a young girl ran in to us. She pressed her back against the wall near the cash desk and, holding out her hands to us, shouted:
Help, they want to kill us!
Immediately after her, at least four young people run in and shout: “You won’t leave! The end of you! - pinch this girl in a corner and begin to choke. Then another guy, literally by the scruff of the neck, drags another one of the same kind into the waiting room, and she yells in a heartbreaking voice: “Help!” Imagine this picture.
At that time, a policeman was still usually on duty at the station, but on that day, as if on purpose, he was not there. The people sat and froze looked at all this horror.
Among all those who were in the waiting room, only I was the only one in the military uniform of a senior lieutenant of aviation. If I had been in civilian life then, I would hardly have got up, but I was in uniform.
I get up and hear how the grandmother sitting next to me exhaled:
- Son! Don't go, they'll kill you!
But I got up and couldn't sit back down. I still ask myself the question: how did I decide? Why? If it happened today, I probably wouldn't get up. But this is me today wise minnow, and then? After all, he himself had Small child. Who would feed him then? And what could I do? I could have fought with one more bully, but against five I wouldn’t stand for even a minute, they would just smear me.
He approached them and stood between the boys and girls. I remember getting up and standing, what else could I do? And I also remember that none of the men supported me anymore.
Fortunately for me, the guys stopped and fell silent. They didn’t say anything to me, and not once did anyone hit me, they just looked with some kind of respect, or surprise.
Then, as if on cue, they turned their backs on me and left the station building. The people were silent. The girls disappeared unnoticed. There was silence, and I was in the center of everyone's attention. Having known the moment of glory, he was embarrassed and also tried to leave quickly.
I walk along the platform and - imagine my surprise - I see this whole company of young people, but no longer fighting, but walking in an embrace!
It dawned on me - they played us! Maybe they had nothing to do, and while waiting for the train, they had so much fun, or maybe they argued that no one would intercede. Don't know.
Then he went to the unit and thought: “But I didn’t know that the guys were joking with us, but I really got up.” Then I was still far from faith, from the Church. He hasn't even been baptized yet. But I realized that I was tested. Someone was looking at me then. As if asking: how will you behave in such circumstances? They simulated the situation, while completely protecting me from any risk, and watched.
We are constantly being looked at. When I ask myself why I became a priest, I cannot find an answer. In my opinion, a candidate for the priesthood must still be a person of a very high moral condition. He must comply with all the conditions and canons historically presented by the Church to the future priest. But if you consider that I was only baptized at thirty, and until that time I lived like everyone else, then like it or not, I came to the conclusion that He simply had no one to choose from.
He looks at us like a hostess sorting through a badly affected cereal, hoping to cook something after all, or like a carpenter who needs to nail a few more planks, and has run out of nails. Then he takes the bent, rusty ones, corrects them and tries: will they go into action? Here I am, probably such a rusty carnation, and many of my brothers who came to the Church on the wave of the early nineties. We are a generation of church builders. Our task is to restore temples, open seminaries, teach the new generation of believing boys and girls who will come to replace us. We cannot be saints, our ceiling is sincerity in relations with God, our parishioner is most often a suffering person. And more often than not, we cannot help him with our prayers, strength is not enough, the most we can do is only share his pain with him.
We suggest the beginning of a new state of the Church, which has emerged from persecution and is accustomed to living in a period of creative creation. Those for whom we work must come into the soil we are preparing and sprout holiness in it. Therefore, when I give Communion to infants, I peer into their faces with such interest. What will you choose, baby, cross or bread?
Choose a cross, my friend! And we will put faith in you, and then we will multiply your childish faith and pure heart by our sincerity, and then, probably, our service in the Church will be justified.
The all-conquering power of love
I remember - I was still a boy, about ten years old - a family lived next to us on the same landing. All families were military, and therefore the neighbors changed quite often. Those neighbors had a grandmother living in the apartment. Now I understand that she was a little over sixty, but then I thought that she was all one hundred. Grandmother was quiet and taciturn, did not like old ladies' gatherings and preferred loneliness. And she had one strange thing. There were two excellent benches in front of the entrance, but the grandmother took out a small stool and sat on it facing the entrance, as if looking out for someone, afraid to miss.
Children are curious people, and this behavior of the old woman intrigued me. Once I could not stand it and asked her:
- Grandma, why are you sitting facing the door, are you waiting for someone?
And she answered me:
- No, boy. If I had the strength, I would just go somewhere else. And so I have to stay here. But I don't have the strength to look at those pipes.
In our yard there was a boiler room with two tall brick chimneys. Of course, climbing them was scary, and even from the older boys, no one took the risk. But what does the grandmother and these pipes have to do with it? Then I did not dare to ask her, and after a while, going out for a walk, I again saw my neighbor sitting alone. She seemed to be waiting for me. I realized that my grandmother wanted to tell me something, sat down next to her, and she stroked my head and said:
- I was not always old and infirm, I lived in Belarusian village I had a family, a very good husband. But the Germans came, my husband, like other men, went to the partisans, he was their commander. We women supported our men in any way we could. The Germans became aware of this. They arrived at the village early in the morning. They drove everyone out of their houses and, like cattle, drove to the station in a neighboring town. The wagons were already waiting for us there. People were stuffed into carts so that we could only stand. We drove with stops for two days, we were not given water or food. When we were finally unloaded from the wagons, some of us were no longer able to move. Then the guards began to drop them to the ground and finish them off with rifle butts. And then they showed us the direction to the gate and said: "Run." As soon as we ran half the distance, the dogs were released. The strongest ones ran to the gate. Then the dogs were driven away, all who remained were lined up in a column and led through the gate, on which it was written in German: "To each his own." Since then, boy, I can't look at the tall chimneys."
She bared her hand and showed me a tattoo of a row of numbers on inside hands, closer to the elbow. I knew it was a tattoo, my dad had a tank inked on his chest because he was a tanker, but why inject numbers?
“This is my room in Auschwitz.
I remember that she also talked about how our tankers liberated them and how lucky she was to live to this day. About the camp itself and what happened in it, she did not tell me anything, probably, she felt sorry for my childish head. I learned about Auschwitz only later. I learned and understood why my neighbor could not look at the pipes of our boiler room.
My father also ended up in the occupied territory during the war. They got it from the Germans, oh, how they got it. And when ours drove the Germans, they, realizing that the grown-up boys were tomorrow's soldiers, decided to shoot them. They gathered everyone and took them to the log, and then our plane saw a crowd of people and gave a queue nearby. The Germans are on the ground, and the boys are in all directions. My dad was lucky, he ran away, shot through his hand, but he ran away. Not everyone was lucky then.
My father entered Germany as a tanker. Them tank brigade distinguished herself near Berlin on the Seelow Heights. I saw pictures of these guys. Youth, and the whole chest in orders, several people are Heroes. Many, like my dad, were called to active army from the occupied lands, and many had something to avenge on the Germans. Therefore, perhaps, they fought so desperately bravely. They marched across Europe, liberated the prisoners of concentration camps and beat the enemy, finishing off mercilessly. “We rushed into Germany itself, we dreamed of how we would smear it with the tracks of our tank tracks. We had a special part, even the uniform was black. We still laughed, no matter how they confused us with the SS men.
Immediately after the end of the war, my father's brigade was stationed in one of the small German towns. Or rather, in the ruins that were left of him. They themselves somehow settled in the basements of buildings, but there was no room for a dining room. And the commander of the brigade, a young colonel, ordered to knock down tables from shields and set up a temporary dining room right on the square of the town.
“And here is our first peaceful dinner. Field kitchens, cooks, everything is as usual, but the soldiers are not sitting on the ground or on the tank, but, as expected, at the tables. They had just begun to dine, and suddenly German children began to crawl out of all these ruins, cellars, cracks like cockroaches. Someone is standing, and someone is already unable to stand from hunger. They stand and look at us like dogs. And I don’t know how it happened, but I took the bread with my shot hand and put it in my pocket, I look quietly, and all our guys, without raising their eyes from each other, do the same.
And then they fed the German children, gave away everything that could somehow be hidden from dinner, the very children of yesterday, who quite recently, without flinching, were raped, burned, shot by the fathers of these German children on our land they captured.
Brigade Commander, Hero Soviet Union, a Jew by nationality, whose parents, like all other Jews of a small Belarusian town, were buried alive by the punishers in the ground, had every right, both moral and military, to drive away the German "geeks" from their tankers with volleys. They ate his soldiers, lowered their combat effectiveness, many of these children were also sick and could spread the infection among the personnel.
But the colonel, instead of firing, ordered an increase in the rate of consumption of products. And German children, on the orders of a Jew, were fed along with his soldiers.
Do you think what kind of phenomenon is this - Russian Soldier? Where does such mercy come from? Why didn't they take revenge? It seems that it is beyond any strength to find out that all your relatives were buried alive, perhaps by the fathers of these same children, to see concentration camps with many bodies of tortured people. And instead of "breaking away" on the children and wives of the enemy, they, on the contrary, saved them, fed them, treated them.
Several years have passed since the events described, and my dad, having finished military school in the fifties, again passed military service in Germany, but already an officer. Once, on the street of one city, a young German called him. He ran up to my father, grabbed his hand and asked:
"You don't recognize me?" Yes, of course, now it’s hard to recognize me in that hungry ragged boy. But I remember you, how you then fed us among the ruins. Believe us, we will never forget this.
This is how we made friends in the West, by force of arms and the all-conquering power of Christian love.
I didn't participate in the war...
On Victory Day, my father, as far as I can remember, usually sat alone at the table. Mom, without agreeing with him about anything in advance, took out a bottle of vodka, collected the simplest snack and left father alone. It seems that veterans try to get together on such a holiday, but he never went anywhere. He sat at the table and was silent. This does not mean that none of us could sit down with him, he just seemed to go somewhere into himself and did not notice anyone. I could sit in front of the TV all day and watch war films, the same ones. And so from year to year. It was boring for me to sit and be silent, and my father did not tell anything about the war.
Once, probably in the seventh grade, I asked him that day:
- Dad, why did you come from the war with only one medal, did you fight badly? Where are your awards?
Father, having had a couple of glasses by that time, smiled at me and answered:
- What are you, son, I received the biggest award that a soldier in the war can only dream of. I returned. And I have you, my son, I have my family, my home. Is this not enough? - Then, as if overcoming himself, he asked: - Do you know what war is?
And he began to tell me. For the only time in my life I listened to his war story. And he never returned to this conversation again, as if it had never happened at all.
- The German came to us when I was almost the same age as you are now. Our troops were retreating, and in August 1941 we were already in the occupied territory. My older brother, your uncle Aleksey, was then in the army, he fought with the White Finnish. And our whole family remained under the Germans. Who have not only stayed in our village: the Romanians, and the Magyars, and the Germans. The most cruel were the Germans. Everything they liked was taken away without asking and killed for any disobedience. The Romanians, I remember, constantly changed something, well, purely our gypsies, the Magyars did not touch us much, but they also killed without asking anyone. At the very beginning of the occupation, they appointed two rural guys, who are older, as policemen. All they did was to walk around with rifles, otherwise they didn’t touch anyone. The announcements will be posted, that's all. Nobody said anything bad about them.
It was difficult. To survive, they constantly worked and still starved. I don’t remember a day when your grandfather relaxed, smiled, but I remember that my grandmother prayed all the time for the warrior Alexy. And so all three years. By the beginning of 1944, the Germans began to drive us, young guys, to dig trenches, fortifications were built for them. We knew that ours fit, and we were already thinking about how we would meet them.
The Germans understood that we were tomorrow's soldiers. After liberation, we will join the army and fight against them. Therefore, just before our arrival, they suddenly surrounded the village and began to drive young lads out of their houses and gather everyone for central square. And then they drove out of the village to the ravine. We began to guess what awaits us, but where to go, the convoy around. And suddenly, fortunately for us, a plane. The pilot saw an incomprehensible column and went into a combat turn. He came in and gave, just in case, the queue next to us. The Germans lay down. And we took advantage of the moment and scattered. The escorts were afraid to stand up to their full height and fired at us from machine guns from their knees. I was lucky, I rolled into the log and, only when I was already safe, found that I had been shot in the arm. The bullet went well, without hitting the bones, and exited just above the place where the watch is usually worn.
Then we were released. There was no battle for the village, the Germans withdrew at night, and in the morning we were awakened by a roar Soviet tanks. On the same day, everyone was gathered in the square, and there was already a gallows on it. When did you manage to, like just arrived? In front of the eyes of the whole people, both policemen were hanged. Then they didn’t understand: since you served with the Germans, it means that you are guilty and you will be judged according to the law of war. It was already after the war that the former policemen were tried, but then it was not up to that. As soon as the bodies of the unfortunate ones hung, they announced to us that all of us who were under occupation are now enemies and cowards, and therefore must wash away our guilt with blood.
On the same day, the work of the military field commissariat began. Many people like me were gathered from our village and from the surrounding area. I was then seventeen and a half, and there were those who were not yet seventeen. I never thought that we would start fighting like this. Imagined that we would be dressed in military uniform, we will take the oath, they will give machine guns. And no one thought to do it. In the yard forty-fourth year, it's not forty-one, there were plenty of weapons, and we - one rifle for three. Some in bast shoes, some in shawls, and some barefoot, and went to the front.
And such untrained boys were driven to atone for the guilt of those who left us in forty-one at the mercy of the winner. We were thrown into attacks before regular troops. It is very scary - to run on the attack, and even without a weapon. You run and scream in fear, you can't do anything else. Where are you running? Why are you running? Machine guns in front, machine guns in the back. From this horror, people went crazy. The father smiled mirthlessly. - After the first attack, I could not close my mouth, the entire mucous membrane was not just dried up, but covered with scabs. Then they taught me that before running, you need to pick up salt on a wet finger and smear your teeth.
We marched in front of the troops for a month, more and more "traitors" were added to our detachment. I already had a captured machine gun, and I learned how to avoid bullets. When the order came in 1926 to withdraw from the front, it turned out that there was already no one to remove from our village. Right now, on the black obelisk in the center of the village, all my friends are recorded. Why did they do it, was it really necessary? How many people were put for nothing. Why did no one take pity on us, because we were almost still children?
And you know what was the most exhausting? In fact, not even these attacks, no, but the fact that my father was driving behind me all this month on a cart. And after each fight of the penalty box, he came to pick up the body of his son and bury it like a human. Father was not allowed to visit us, but I sometimes saw him from afar. I was very sorry for him, and I wanted to be killed as soon as possible, because they would kill me anyway, why should the old man suffer. And my mother prayed all this time, did not get up from her knees, and I felt it.
Then I got into training, became a tanker and continued to fight. Your uncle Lesha at twenty-six was already a lieutenant colonel and regiment commander, and the Dnieper was crossing the penal battalion as a private. Are you surprised? War, brother, and war has its own justice. Everyone wanted to survive, and often at the expense of others.
Dad was smoking then, he would drag on, be silent, as if looking somewhere, into the depths of years, and then continue again:
- After the Dnieper, he was returned orders, reinstated in the party, and the title "private" was left. And he didn't get mad.
Your uncle and I crossed paths twice at the front. And only briefly. Once, from a truck passing by, I hear someone shouting: “Boys! Don't you have something like that?" – “Yes, how not?! Here I am!" We stand in cars passing towards each other and wave our hands, but we can’t stop: the columns are moving. And another time at the station, our train had already begun to move, and I suddenly saw him. “Alyosha,” I shout, “brother!” He is towards the car, we are pulling our hands to each other to touch, but we cannot. For a long time he ran after me, he wanted to catch up with everything.
At the very beginning of the forty-fifth, two more grandmother's grandchildren went to the front, your cousins. Women in Ukraine give birth early, and I was the last in the family, and, of course, the most beloved. The elder sister's sons managed to grow up, so they got to the front. My poor mother, how she begged Alyosha, then me, and then also her grandchildren. During the day - in the field, at night - on my knees.
Everything was there, and it was on fire in the tank, on the Seelow Heights near Berlin, together with the company commander, they remained alive. Last days war, and we have so many crews burned down, what kind of blood did this Victory give us!
Yes, the war is over and we're all back, in different time but returned. It was like a miracle, can you imagine, four men from the same house went to the front, and all four returned. But my grandmother did not return from that war. She begged us, calmed down that we were all alive and well, she cried with happiness, and then she died. She was still quite an old woman, she was not even sixty.
At the same winning year she immediately fell seriously ill, suffered a little more and died. A simple illiterate peasant woman. What reward, son, will you appreciate her feat, what order? Her reward from God is the sons and grandchildren whom she did not give to death. And what is from people, all this is vanity, smoke.
My father ruffled my hair.
Son, live decent person, do not be mean in life, God forbid that anyone should cry because of you. And you will be my order.
And then he continued again:
The news of my mother's death came to me under former Königsberg It's too late. I turned to the commander. And then our commander was a colonel, a Georgian. He went in an overcoat to toe, and next to him is always a Great Dane. He treated me well, even though I was a boy, but he respected me. Then already, in the forty-ninth, I remember, he summoned me and asked: “Sergeant, will you go to study? Do you want to become an officer? “So I was under occupation, Comrade Colonel, but there is no trust in me.” The commander, waving his fist at someone invisible, shouted: “I tell you, you will be an officer!” And banged on the table. Yes, he hit so hard that the dog, frightened, barked.
While I was on vacation, while I was getting home, I almost drove for a week. There was already snow on the fields. I came to the cemetery, wept over my mother's grave and drove back. I go and wonder that I have not forgotten how to cry yet. There were no photographs of my mother left, and I remembered her as I saw her in last time when she ran after our column, then, in the forty-fourth.
In some year Great Victory All front-line soldiers were awarded the Order of the Patriotic War. We looked at the military registration and enlistment office, but according to the documents, it turns out that my dad never fought. Who remembered the number of that military field commissariat that called his father to the penal battalion, who started a personal file on him, if he survived due to a misunderstanding? Yes, and the rest of the war went without a scratch. No hospital records. There is a medal for the war, but there are no documents. So, the order is not required. I was very worried about my father then, it was a shame.
- Dad, - I say, - let's write to the archive, restore justice.
And he calmly answers me like this:
- Why? Am I missing something? I also have a rather large pension for shoulder straps. I can still help you even now. And then, you understand, they don’t beg for such orders. I know why they gave it at the front, and I know that I did not deserve it.
Uncle Lesha died in the early seventies. He worked as a school principal in his village. The communist was desperate, and he fought with God, on Easter people went to church, and my uncle paints my hut, and that's it. He died quite young, forgive him, Lord. A few years later, my father and I came to his homeland. I was then 17.
I remember going into the yard of Uncle Lesha's house. I see that it hurts my father from the fact that his brother is no longer there. We arrived at the beginning of autumn, it was still warm, we went into the yard, and in the yard there was a large pile of fallen leaves. And among the leaves scattered toys are already uncle's grandchildren. And suddenly I notice among this fallen foliage and debris of the Order ... of the Red Banner, still without a block, of those that were screwed to the tunic, and two orders of the Red Star. And my father saw it too.
He knelt down in the foliage, collected his brother's orders in his hand, looked at them and seemed to be unable to understand something. And then he looked up at me, and in his eyes there was such defenselessness: how, they say, are you guys like this with us? And fear: can all this be forgotten?
Now I am already the same age as my father was when he told me about that war, and he told me only once. I left home a long time ago and rarely see my father. But I notice that everything last years on Victory Day, after I serve a memorial service for fallen soldiers and congratulate the veterans on the holiday, I come home and sit down at the table. I sit down alone, in front of me is a simple snack and a bottle of vodka, which I will never drink alone. Yes, I don’t set such a goal, it’s more like a symbol for me, because my father never drank it either. I sit and watch films about the war all day. And I just can’t understand why it became so important for me, why didn’t my pain become mine? After all, I didn’t fight, then why?
Maybe it's good that grandchildren play with grandfathers' military awards, but we just can't, growing up from childhood, forget them like this, on a garbage heap, you can't, guys.
I confess that I began to read the book of Father Alexander Dyachenko "Scholia", published by the publishing house "Nikeya", with a prejudice that the so-called "pastoral literature" has nothing to do with literature itself. It must certainly be crammed with soulful instructions, crushed into crumbs with touching and caressing suffixes, a kind of “night marshmallow streams ether” or marshmallows, a delicacy for the infantile.
Indeed, the first pages of the book justified fears. Here and there, “gray-haired uncles with beer bellies”, then “backs, like stretched strings” and other small suffixally deformed objects were full of shots. I was especially struck by the appeal to "you" and the promise of mutual friendship. It must be said that such a desire not only significantly reduces the distance between the author and the reader, but instead of striving to become one's own, it gives rise to distrust.
However, by the twelfth page these criticisms have been overcome.
Now some formal observations.
In the composition "Scholia" the author uses the method of framing the text, a story within a story. Moreover, double and triple framing. It's like the box-in-the-box principle. The main narrative line, it would seem, belongs to the narrator, in the role of which the archpriest himself acts Alexander Dyachenko. His life is created in the environment of many people. Dozens, hundreds appear on the pages - a great galaxy of names, with each of which the main character is associated with a micro or macro plot. But the narrator's line is in fact only a commentary, a scholia to the main compositional core of the narrative - the diary of Nadezhda Ivanovna Shishova, which, by the will of circumstances, turns out to be found and read not only by the narrator, but also by one of the characters.
The diary is an epic canvas, centennial history one peasant family, originating in the village of Racheika in the Samara region. For each of the chapters of the diary there is an author's scholia, a "marginal comment", which in one way or another correlates with what is happening in the diary. This technique creates a sense of the continuity of what is happening, a semantic retrospective that arises as a result of the simultaneous resolution of many storylines.
So what is this book about?
About love
About love for near and far. To relatives and strangers. About the love of wife and husband. About parental love (the story of the girl Katya, who rebelled before her parents and became disabled). “Loving and forgiving is an ability that we have lost.”
Merciful love is indicative in the chapter of the scholia "The Girl in the Window". Nina, a cancer patient, is treated in the hospital with cyclophosphamide, a poison for mice. The same poison is poisoned in the chamber of cockroaches. Dehydrated, Nina crawls to the sink to pour water and notices two cockroaches crawling the same way. The three of them crawl to the washstand, a man and cockroaches. Cockroaches understand that now a person is not dangerous for them, he is in the same position, move his mustache and ask for help: “Help, man!” Taking the lid off plastic bottle, Nina pours water for the cockroaches: “I understand you guys. Come on, have some water." “Mercy is like a key, even if you have shown love for creatures such as cockroaches,” the author summarizes.
About paradise
Not a speculative dream, but a real earthly paradise accompanies man. Memories of the paradise of childhood transform even such a hopeless gambler, a threat to the area, a giant smoker, like Genka Bulygin from the head of the Red Poppies of Issyk-Kul scholia.
“Sanya, you won’t believe it, whole valleys of poppies! They grow on their own, no one sows them, - Genka knew such words and built long phrases. “You run and crash into them like an icebreaker into an ice floe, and then you swim through the red waves. While you are a boy, they whip you in the face, when you grow up - on the chest, then only on the arms. You fall on your back, lie down and look through the red petals at the sun and the bottomless sky for a long, long time. And everything is different there, there is no evil, there is another air, other people. They are kind and smile at each other…”
Paradise - in a mountain lake with clear greenish water, in the Tien Shan mountains, in the forests of the foothills, in herds of grazing sheep, in the fish that Genka caught with his father in mountain rivers. Whatever childhood, a model of paradise is always formulated in it ...
About the priesthood
The scholia are written on behalf of the author of the book, priest Alexander Dyachenko. From the text it becomes clear that his homeland is Belarusian city Grodno. In his youth, for reading the New Testament, he received the nickname "Sectarian". He became a priest with the blessing of his confessor. And since then he has served as the rector of a rural church in a village that has almost merged with the sprawling city.
“A priest, like a doctor, accompanies a person from the moment of birth to the day of the last. But unlike doctors, we are also concerned about his posthumous existence. After all, the fact that one of those who was nearby has already left the earthly world, in fact, does not change anything. His immortal soul continues to be in my area of responsibility.
Like a doctor, every priest, especially a parish priest, has a “disturbing” suitcase.
“It happens that you have to run to a challenge without delay. He threw on the cassock, grabbed the bag - and forward. But the suitcase itself is nothing, much more important is what it is filled with. The main "tool of labor" of any priest is his censer and cross. The censer can be new, Sofrinsky, but the cross cannot. He must necessarily be a witness to an uninterrupted tradition from past centuries to today.
From chapter to chapter, the author deduces the history of his parishioners. The stories are true, in which he himself is mistaken, shows impulsive, "human". In these stories, “the loneliness of a stranger to you is everyday and imperceptible. He goes to the temple in the hope that he will be heard there. Approaching the priest, he certainly understands that even in the temple they will not return his dead son or lost health. He's not after that. I haven't read Jung, but I have my own scale of human despair. And I know how to help those who come to the temple. Don't say anything, just be by his side and be silent. The Lord will do the rest...
About death
The theme of death runs through the narrative.
“I love to sing. The chants seem to me the most beautiful and very touching. There is no despair in them, but there is at the same time the joy of the human soul returning home, and the sadness of loved ones. This parting is temporary: the day will come when we will all meet again, and the words of the hymns inspire hope.”
Death as a test affects every hero in one way or another. There is a cycle of death. Parents are witnesses to the death of their children. Children bear witness to the death of their parents. Every time death appears differently, each human history has its own death. Sudden or by negligence (children drowned under the ice), protracted from a long illness (“today paradise is filled with cancer patients”), with or without pain. The smell of rotting human flesh ("man smells bad") in the glow and snow. The soul in the form of a dove appears more than once at the last goodbyes.
Today's death is not the same as before.
Previously, they prepared for death from childhood - the former children in the village played funerals. They rolled a doll from a rag, put it in a “mykolnik” (a box for yarn). The boys carried the dead man, and the girls lamented. The main thing was not to be shy, but to understand that there is only you and the dead man, and no one else.
There was a premonition of death. A man went to the bathhouse, put on a clean shirt, called everyone to say goodbye, and lay down under the icons. The soul was preparing to leave earthly life. Now, the author admits, "souls are being pulled out of us more." Hidden deep lamentations:
My dear brother Kolya!
Gathered in your chamber
Not for an honest feast, but not for a wedding.
And we came to see you off
In your last path-path.
Oh oh…
About the feat of small deeds
Before us is a life story human lives. Each character in the book is engaged in the usual routine work, quietly cultivating his garden. In the early hours, he goes out to the feat of daily work in order to see his temple in splendor. (So Father Pavel, for example, collects bottles, digs through the garbage in order to restore monasteries and churches with the accumulated money). None of the heroes shirks from his work, does not rise above it. In awareness, recognition of the ultimate task - the cultivation of oneself, an important thing happens - inclusion in everyday meanings. Small everyday meanings that line up in a whole and densely filled life.
About the righteous
The feat of small deeds - isn't this the essence of the righteous? And again about the garden:
“Judge for yourself what our land is for the Lord? Yes, read the same garden as mine. Do you know how much you need to work for the earth to bear fruit? And what is this hard labor for? Yes, all for the harvest of righteous human souls. God is always working. Here is such a "garden" all year round"! When God's garden ceases to produce the harvest of the righteous, then the world will end. There is no point in wasting so much energy on him…”
Speaking of the righteous, it should be said in more detail about one of the heroes of "Scholia", who is Andrey Kuzmich Loginov. It would seem that the biography of the "grandfather" fits well into several pages of the diary of Nadezhda Ivanovna, his granddaughter. However, it is he, the hermit and prayer book, who is the axial rod around which the narration invisibly revolves, in most cases, it would seem, not directly connected with him. It is about him that the author latently thinks. And, I suppose, it was he, Andrei Loginov, a righteous man and a confessor of the Christian faith, who was the impetus for writing the "Scholias".
Dreaming of monasticism since childhood, at the insistence of the confessor of the Sarov monastery of the Arzamas district, Father Anatoly, Andrei Kuzmich was forced to marry. Having raised his daughter, he digs a desert for himself on the edge of the village, where he labored from 1917 to 1928. For three years he lives a complete recluse, sees no one and does not talk to anyone, but only prays and reads. Holy Bible, lays 300 bows a day. His wife leaves food for him at the door.
During Stalinist repressions“The desert was plundered, the key was broken, the apple trees were cut down, the large cross stood on the road - they cut it down. One member of the party moved the cell to his yard and made a stable out of it. However, the grandfather manages to escape - for several years the family shelters him in the house from persecution. He is experiencing a great Patriotic war, comes to the sixty-first year, in which he dies at the age of eighty-six.
The image of Andrei Kuzmich Loginov appears in the book as the image of a saint with the gift of providence and the talent of consolation. Everyone approached his grandfather for advice and he gave everyone the necessary teaching, which is based on an indispensable gospel commandment.
“Whoever asks: “Do you believe in God?” - do not be afraid and boldly answer: “Yes, I believe!” And God will not leave you. If at work they are demoted or even fired, God will not leave, but will arrange even better. Or: “Never put yourself above others. Learn from everyone. At work, do everything with heart. Be honest, listen to your bosses, do whatever they tell you. But if they begin to demand something illegal, which is at odds with the commandments of Christ, do not do it.”
About historical time
On almost four hundred pages of the book through different generations one family pass events Russian history. Dispossession, famine, persecution, Chekists, collectivization, repression, war, thaw, stagnation, dashing nineties… People behave differently. None of them are winners. Nobody is defeated. Not a single word of condemnation was said - neither against the authorities, nor about the executioners. Not in the book negative characters. Neither Nadezhda Ivanovna, nor Elder Andrei, nor any other character in the book considers himself an enemy existing government. They perceive everything that happens as an inevitability, a given, as God's permission and an opportunity to save themselves and their loved ones.
“Grandfather told us that any power is from God. It should be so, and it does not depend on us. But whatever power you have, never renounce God. I remember when I was already an adult, my mother taught: if you are asked if there is a God, say that there is.
“I have always believed in God. I prayed every morning and evening, prayed when I went to exams or did something responsible. She prayed when she sat down at the table, but always to herself. The cross was worn fastened with a pin to underwear, and before a medical examination or physical education class, she went to the toilet and unhooked it.
Schoolchildren put on the board the names of people who came to church for Easter. Saratov region. Photo: TASS
Through the prism of faith, the country appears patient, merciful and trusting to the point of foolishness. But this humility does not mean reconciliation, forgetfulness of all historical memory:
“Only seventy years have passed, and already everyone has forgotten everything. new country needs new heroes, and now the streets are named after the SS man, monuments are erected in his honor and cast golden star Hero. In independent Uzbekistan, they realized and glorified the formidable Tamerlane, who, after his raids, left pyramids of severed heads. national hero, on the money his portraits are printed, monuments are erected. The Mongols praise Genghis Khan, the enlightened French praise Napoleon. And you think: why, forgetting the creators of beauty, poets, thinkers, scientists, doctors, people continue to glorify Cain with enviable persistence?
About eternity
The main core of the Scholius narrative is the authentic diary of Nadezhda Ivanovna Shishova, the granddaughter of Andrei Kuzmich Loginov. The reader unfolds the fullness of the life drama associated with the loss of loved ones and relatives (first the parents die, then one by one she buries her daughter, husband, grandson). She began writing her memoirs in the late 1990s, “when everyone you loved in this earthly life had already left. Then you begin to live in anticipation of meeting them there, in eternity. The earthly ceases to excite.
She dedicates her memoirs to her little great-grandson Vanechka, who lives abroad. It is likely that Vanechka is a fictitious addressee, but it does not matter. Because it is he who is the point to which all generic experience is directed, all historical memory. Point of display for each of us. The past, which becomes eternity, and the future, which is already eternity, unite at this point.
“These memories of our family, of your ancestors, distant and close, I wrote especially for you. I don't know what language you speak now. But, Vanechka, I believe that someday you will read my notes about these simple people. Know that you have nothing to be ashamed of us. We honestly worked on our land, defended it from enemies, built temples, believed and loved. Remember yourself, my dear granddaughter. Remember, you are Russian. We love you, Vanechka, and we bow to you from eternity.
As a postscript, I’ll say that the fears associated with the “pastoral literature”, framed in the “Spiritual Prose” series, turned out to be not so far-fetched - no, and the simplification in presentation, stylistic and lexical repetitions, all this is in the text. But there is also something in the text that raises the reader's perception above the expectation of "literature proper", forces one to take action - to look around oneself and notice others - those who live invisibly nearby. Or, like grandfather Andrey in a snowstorm, go out onto the porch of the cell in the hermitage with the bell “Gift of Valdai” and ring for a long, long time so that the traveler who has lost direction knows the way.
priest (priest) of God Almighty )
To talk about God, Faith and salvation in such a way that one may never even mention Him,
and everything becomes clear to readers, listeners and viewers, and there is joy in the soul from this ...
I once wanted to save the world, then my diocese, then my village...
And now I remember the words of the Monk Seraphimushka:
"save yourself, and around you thousands will be saved"!
So simple and so impossible...
Father Alexander Dyachenko(born 1960) - pictured below,
Russian man, married, simple, no military
And I answered the Lord my God that I would go to the Goal through suffering...
Priest Alexander Dyachenko,
photo from the meeting-deanonymization of the network blogger
Contents of the storybook "Crying angel". Read online!
- Miracles ( Miracles #1: Cancer Healings) (with the addition of the story "Sacrifice")
- Gift (butt trainer)
- New Year ( with added stories: commemoration , Image and eternal music)
- My universities (10 years on a piece of iron No. 1)
- (with added story)
- Crying angel (with added story)
- Best Love Song (The German was married to a Russian - he found Love and death)
- Kuzmich ( with added story)
- shreds (full version, with the inclusion of the story of Tamara's meeting with I.V. Stalin )
- dedication (God, Hirotonia-1)
- intersections (with added story)
- Miracles (Miracles #2: The smell of the abyss and the talking cat)
- The flesh is one ( Wife priest - how to become a mother? With addition:)
Joke
Be like children (with added story)
In the circle of light (with added story)
Valya, Valentina, what's the matter with you now...
Crown (Father Pavel-3)
love thy neighbour
ascent
Time doesn't wait (Bogolyubovsky Procession+ Grodno-4) (with additional story "I love Grodno" - Grodno-6)
Time has gone!
The all-conquering power of love
Meeting(with Sergey Fudel) ( with the addition of the short story "Makropoulos' Remedy")
Every breath... (with added story)
Heroes and deeds
Gehazi's curse (with added story)
Father Frost (with the addition of a micro story)
deja vu
Children's prayer (Consecration-3, with the addition of a story)
Good deeds
Soulkeeper (o.Viktor, special forces-dad, story No. 1)
For a life
boomerang law with added story)
Hollywood star
Icon
And the eternal fight... (with added story)
(10 years on a piece of iron No. 2)
From the experience of railway theology
Mason (with added story)
Quasimodo
Princes ( with added story)
Lullaby (Gypsies-3)
Foundation stone(Grodno-1) ( with the addition of a story - Grodno-2)
Red poppies of Issyk-Kul
You can't see face to face...
Small man
Metamorphoses
A world where dreams come true
Mirages
Bear and Mariska
My first teacher (Father Pavel-1)
My friend Vitka
Guys (with added story)
In war as in war (o.Viktor, spetsnaz-dad, story No. 6)
Our dreams (with added story)
Don't bend over, little head...
Scampish notes (Bulgaria)
new year story
Nostalgia
About two meetings with Father Alexander "in real life"
(Father Pavel-2)
(o.Viktor, spetsnaz-dad, story No. 2)
Turn off mobile phones
Fathers and Sons ( with the addition of the story "Grandfather")
Web
The first love
Letter to Zorica
Letter from childhood (with the addition of the story "The Jewish Question")
Gift (about happiness as a gift)
Bow (Grodno-3) (with the addition of the story "Hercules Disease" - Grodno-5)
Regulation obliges (with the addition of a story - Father Victor, No. 4 and 8)
Epistle to Philemon
(Wolf Messing)
Sentence
overcoming (with the addition of a story - Father Victor, special forces father, No. 3 and 7)
About Adam
Roadside checks (with added story)
Clearance ( Ciurlionis)
Radonitsa
The happiest day
Story
(10 years on a piece of iron No. 3)
Neighbours (Gypsies-1)
Old things (with added story)
Old nags (with stories added)
Passion-face (Gypsies-2)
Three meetings
Difficult question
Wretched
Lesson (Consecration-2)
Feng Shui or Heart Disease
Chechen syndrome (o.Viktor, spetsnaz-dad, story No. 5)
What to do? (Old Believers)
These eyes are opposite (with stories added)
I didn't participate in the war...
My tongue...my friend?...
Even if you read stories and essays Father Alexander Dyachenko on the Internet (online), it will be a good thing if you buy the corresponding offline publications ( paper books) Father Alexander and give it to all your friends who do not read anything on the net (successively, first one, then the other). This is a good thing!
Some simple stories Russian priest Alexander Dyachenko
Father Alexander is a simple Russian priest with the usual biography of a simple Russian person:
- was born, studied, served, married, worked (working on a "piece of iron" for 10 years), .. remained a man.
Father Alexander came to the Christian faith as an adult. Very perishing "hooked his" Christ. And somehow little by little siga-siga - as the Greeks say, because they love such a thorough approach), imperceptibly, unexpectedly - turned out to be a Priest, a Servant of the Lord at His Throne.
He also suddenly became a "spontaneous" writer. I just saw so much around significant, providential and wonderful that I began to record the life observations of a simple Russian person in the "akyn" style. And being a wonderful storyteller and a real Russian person with a mysteriously deep, wide Russian soul, who also knew the Light of Christ in His Church, he began to reveal in his stories the Russian and Christian view of our beautiful life in this world, as a place of Love , labor, sorrows and victories, in order to benefit all people from their humble unworthiness.
Here is the abstract from the book "Crying angel" Father Alexander Dyachenko about the same:
Bright, modern and unusually deep stories of Father Alexander captivate readers from the first lines. What is the secret of the author? In truth. In the truth of life. He clearly sees what we have learned not to notice - what gives us discomfort and worries our conscience. But here, in the shadow of our attention, there is not only pain and suffering. It is here that the unspeakable joy leads us to the Light.A little biography Priest Alexander Dyachenko
"The advantage of a simple worker is a free head!"
Meeting with readers Father Alexander Dyachenko told a little about himself about your path to faith.- The dream of becoming a military sailor did not come true - father Alexander graduated from an agricultural institute in Belarus. Almost 10 years on railway departed in the compilers of trains, has the highest qualification category. "The main advantage of a simple worker is a free head", - Father Alexander Dyachenko shared his experience. At that time, he was already a believer, and after the "railroad stage" of his life, he entered the St. Tikhon Theological Institute in Moscow, after which he was ordained a priest. Today, Father Alexander Dyachenko has 11 years of priesthood behind him, great experience communication with people, many stories.
"The truth of life as it is"
Conversation with priest Alexander Dyachenko, blogger and writer
"LiveJournal" alex_the_priest, the father of Alexander Dyachenko, who serves in one of the temples of the "distant" Moscow region, is not like ordinary network blogs. Readers in the notes of the priest are attracted and conquered by something that certainly should not be looked for on the Internet - the truth of life as it is, and not as it appears in virtual space or political debate.
Father Alexander became a priest only at the age of 40, as a child he dreamed of being a sailor, he graduated from an agricultural institute in Belarus. For more than ten years he worked on the railway as a simple worker. Then he went to study at the Orthodox St. Tikhonovsky humanitarian University, was ordained 11 years ago.
The work of Father Alexander - well-aimed life sketches - are popular on the Internet and are also published in the weekly "My Family". In 2010, the publishers of "Nikea" chose 24 essays from the priest's LiveJournal and released the collection "Weeping Angel". A second book is also being prepared - this time the writer himself will choose the stories that will be included in it. Father Alexander spoke about his work and plans for the future to the Pravoslavie.ru portal
- Judging by your stories in LiveJournal, your path to the priesthood was long and difficult. What was the path to writing like? Why did you decide to immediately publish everything on the Internet?
By chance. I must admit that I am not a “technical” person at all. But my children somehow decided that I was too behind the times, and showed me that there is a “Live Journal” on the Internet where you can write down some notes.
But still, nothing happens by chance in life. I recently turned 50 and it has been 10 years since I became a priest. And I had a need to sum up some results, to comprehend somehow my life. Everyone gets like this crucial moment in life, for someone - at 40 years old, for me here - at 50, when it's time to decide what you are. And all this gradually turned into writing: some memories came, at first I wrote small notes, and then I began to publish whole stories. And when the same youth taught me to take the text in LJ "under the cut", then I could not limit my thought ...
I recently calculated that over the past two years I have written about 130 stories, that is, it turns out that during this time I wrote even more often than once a week. This surprised me - I myself did not expect this from myself; something, apparently, moved me, and if, despite the usual lack of time for a priest, I still managed to write something, then it was necessary ... Now I plan to take a break until Easter - and then we'll see. I honestly never know if I will write the next story or not. If I don't have a need, a need to tell a story, I'll drop it all at once.
- All your stories are written in the first person. Are they autobiographical?
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: The events that are described are all real. But as for the form of presentation, it was somehow closer to me to write in the first person, I probably can’t do it differently. After all, I'm not a writer, but a village priest.
Some stories are really biographical, but since it didn’t all happen specifically to me, I write under a pseudonym, but on behalf of a priest. For me, each plot is very important, even if it didn’t happen to me personally - after all, we also learn from our parishioners, and all our lives ...
And at the end of the stories I always specifically write a conclusion (the moral of the essay), such that everything is put in its place. It is still important to show: look, you can’t go to the red light, but you can go to the green one. My stories are primarily a sermon...
- Why did you choose such a direct form of entertaining everyday stories for preaching?
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: So that anyone who reads the Internet or opens a book, still read it to the end. To some simple situation which he used to ignore in ordinary life, he would have excited, awakened a little. And, perhaps, next time, faced with similar events himself, he will look towards the temple...
Many readers later admitted to me that they began to perceive the priests and the Church in a different way. After all, often a priest for people is like a monument. It is impossible to approach him, it is scary to approach him. And if they see in my story a living preacher who also feels, worries, who tells them about the secret, then maybe it will be easier later to come to the realization of the need for a confessor in their life ...
I don't see any certain group people from the flock ... But I have a lot of hope for the young, so that they also understand.
Young people perceive the world differently than people of my generation. They have different habits, different language. Of course, we will not copy their behavior or expressions in a sermon in the temple. But on a sermon in the world, I think you can talk a little in their language!
- Have you seen the fruits of your missionary message?
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: I had no idea, to be honest, that there would be so many readers. But now there is modern facilities contacts, they write comments to my blog, often stupid, and I also receive letters to the newspaper My Family, where my stories are published. It would seem that the newspaper, as they say, "for housewives", they read it simple people, busy with everyday life, children, domestic problems - and it was especially joyful for me to receive feedback from them that the stories made me think about what the Church is and what it is like.
- However, on the Internet, no matter what you write about, you can get comments that are not very favorable ...
Father Alexander: Still, I need a response. Otherwise I wouldn't be interested in writing...
- Have you ever heard gratitude for writing from your regular parishioners in the church?
Father Alexander: They, I hope, do not know that I also write stories - after all, life stories heard from them in many ways make me write something again!
- And if they run out entertaining stories from life experience, run out?
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: Some quite ordinary situations are very heartfelt - and then I write them down. I do not write, my main task is a priestly one. As long as it is in line with my activities as a priest, I am writing. Will I write another story tomorrow - I do not know.
It's like having an honest conversation with an interlocutor. Often the congregation gathers at the parish after the Liturgy, and at the meal each one in turn tells something, shares problems, or impressions, or joy - such a sermon after the sermon is obtained.
- Do you yourself confess to the reader? Does writing work strengthen you spiritually?
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: Yes, it turns out that you open yourself. If you write while closing, no one will believe you. Each story carries the presence of a person on whose behalf the story is being told. If it's funny, then the author himself laughs, if it's sad, then he cries.
For me, my notes are an analysis of myself, an opportunity to draw some conclusions and say to myself: here you are right, and here you were wrong. Somewhere this is an opportunity to ask for forgiveness from those whom you offended, but in reality it is no longer possible to ask for forgiveness. Perhaps the reader will see how bitter it is later, and will not repeat some of the mistakes that we make every day, or at least think about it. Let him not immediately, let him remember in years - and go to church. Although it happens differently in life, because how many people gather all the time, and never come to the temple. And my stories are addressed to them too.
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: Holy Bible. If we don't read it daily, we'll end up as Christians right away. If we live our own mind and we will not eat Holy Scripture like bread, then all our other books lose their meaning!
If it’s difficult to read, don’t be too lazy to come to the church for classes-conversations about the Holy Scriptures, which each parish, I hope, conducts ... If the reverend Seraphim of Sarov read every day Gospel, although he knew by heart, what can we say?
Here is everything that we, priests, write - all this should push such a person to start reading the Holy Scriptures. In that the main task the entire church fiction and journalism.
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: Well, firstly, we collect our parish library at the church, in which everyone who applies can get something they need, and something modern, which is not only useful, but interesting to read. So for advice, and about literature as well, do not be shy to turn to a priest.
In general, there is no need to be afraid to have a confessor: you must definitely choose some specific person, even if he is often busy and will sometimes “brush” you off, but it’s better if you still go to the same priest - and personal contact with him will gradually be established.
Priest Alexander Dyachenko: It's hard to choose just one. In general, with age, I began to read less fiction, you begin to appreciate reading spiritual books. But recently, for example, he again opened Remarque "Love your neighbor"- and saw that this is the same Gospel, only worldly expounded ...
With priest Alexander Dyachenko
talked Antonina Maga- February 23, 2011 - pravoslavie.ru/guest/44912.htm
The first book, a collection of short stories, by priest Alexander Dyachenko "Crying angel" published by the publishing house "Nikeya", Moscow, 2011, 256 pp., m / o, pocket format.
Father Alexander Dyachenko has a hospitable Learn blog- alex-the-priest.livejournal.com on the Internet.
Yesterday I prayed, read the 62nd psalm, presented what I had read and was touched. Here is the place in Russian:
“... You were my helper and under the shelter of Your wings I will rejoice. My soul has clung to You, and Your right hand has received me.”
So I see an Angel, on whose huge palm - human soul. So tiny and defenseless, like my youngest granddaughter Polina. And at the same time self-willed and already subject to passions.
The angel carefully presses her to his chest, and his wings gather and protect the soul, like a cover.
My granddaughters love to climb into all sorts of minks, cover themselves with blankets, curtains, mother's coat, whatever. The main thing is to look for them and ask all the time:
- Well, where is our Alice? Where is our Polina?
And here they are!
Then the girls jump out of the shelter with delight and laugh.
A person grows up, becomes strong and independent, and this delight disappears, the soul forgets the time spent on the right hand of God, where, hiding in a “house” of angel wings, trustingly clung to the One Who loves.
With age, once again becoming helpless and dependent, you seem to lift the veil of memory and open the long-forgotten, but such beautiful place, originally prepared for you by the Lord, - on His hand, burying your face in His chest.
Once again I regretted that I did not own paints.
***
More than a month I was not in Moscow and did not see my girls. Bored - no strength! And then they gave Lisa a telephone receiver, and she said:
- Grandfather, no one agrees to be a horse, come.
I laughed, and then it really began to disassemble.
- Well, why don't you “speak” with a child, it’s hard for them there, young. Eh...
I was going to go during the week, but I got sick.
On Sunday I looked: oh, then all the same services and go home. No, we must urgently get out, at least for a day. In short, on Monday morning we stopped at the market and, loaded with gifts, went with my mother to the capital.
... Polinka, she is more and more with her grandmother, her grandfather is still avoiding, but the Fox, on the contrary, does not leave. We played horse with her, and watched a cartoon about three little pigs.
On Tuesday morning, I dragged her on my shoulders and got ready to go to the grocery store.
- Lisa, will you go to the store with your grandfather?
Lisa doubts.
- Grandpa will buy you an angribedz.
A toy with an incomprehensible taste of sweets is a weighty argument in favor of going.
We go with the baby to the store, she shows her grandfather the way. And so that the grandfather is not lost, he holds his hand. We arrive:
- Grandpa, here's my toy!
- Let's first buy everything that we are ordered, and then go to the cashier for "angribedz."
- No, grandfather, a toy is the most necessary thing.
Came back home.
- Foxy, look at your big nails, let's cut them.
Child in thought. Then he agrees. I take small scissors:
- Grandfather, this nail is the sickest for me.
- Do not worry, grandfather will kiss him first, and only then will he cut his hair.
They cut their hair. Let's take the next one.
- Grandpa, this one is the sickest one now.
We'll kiss him too, don't worry.
Nails cut off. Leave soon. We take a book of Kipling's fairy tales and begin to read a story about a curious little elephant. Reading, I imagine what is happening in the faces. Here is this very baby elephant, and here is a two-color python, and this is a terrible crocodile.
Alice listens and laughs, then suddenly presses against me very, very strongly:
- Grandpa, I love you.
I was taken aback and immediately stopped imagining Uncle Baboon. As long as I can remember, no one said these words to me. Mother - by virtue of the arrangement of her character, and it was not customary in their family to show feelings. And the daughter was brought up by her mother more.
No, of course, they always congratulate you on your birthday: “We all love you”, and even “very, very much”, but only always - “we” and never - “I”.
- I love you too. Strongly, strongly, - and pressed the baby to him.
So two people sat, huddled together and reveling in this amazing, suddenly surging feeling. A small three-year-old, still so helpless, and gray-haired, wiser over the years and experience.
In fact, it doesn't matter what you are: old or young, tired of life or just starting to live. It doesn't matter at all. The main thing is that you are capable of love, and there is nothing more precious than this feeling in the world.
An excerpt from the book of Father Alexander Dyachenko. "Scholia. Simple and complex stories about people". M.: Publishing House"Nicaea".
The Nikea publishing house invites Father Alexander Dyachenko to the presentation of a new book
Address: st. Myasnitskaya, 6/3, building 1, hall No. 8, level 1
This year, the publishing house "Nikeya" published a book by Archpriest Alexander Dyachenko "Scholia". The word "scholia" means the same as "marginal notes" - in antiquity and the Middle Ages, this was the name for brief comments on the manuscript. Father Alexander's book really consists of two works: the memoirs of a simple Russian woman, Nadezhda Ivanovna Shishova, who accidentally fell into the hands of the narrator, and the author's "scholia" - reflections on what they read. Each scholia is short story from modern life, which continues the theme given in the memoirs.
At the beginning of the book, the narrator explains how Nadezhda Ivanovna's diaries ended up in his possession. Once he, a priest, asked his parishioner Gleb, how did he come to God? It turned out that it all started with the fact that Gleb and his family bought an apartment in a town near Moscow. While sorting through the things of the former mistress, he left himself a Bible and icons, and two more general notebooks with her memories. Deciding to someday read the manuscript, he threw the notebooks on the mezzanine and forgot about them. Gleb remembered both the Bible and notebooks at an extremely difficult moment: his daughter, who was on a spree, got into a car accident, was crippled and bedridden. He began to read the memoirs from the end, and the very first episode he read turned out to be surprisingly consonant with his own situation: Nadezhda Ivanovna described the illness and death of her nineteen-year-old daughter ...
Living the most painful period of his life, Gleb continued to read his memoirs - and he had the strength to fight for the life of his daughter and live on his own. After all, the memoirs were written by a deeply religious person: Orthodox faith Nadezhda Ivanovna inherited from her ascetic grandfather and grandmother, from her father and mother, for whom remembering God was as natural as breathing. By the day when Gleb's daughter recovered, the whole family was a believer: he himself, and his wife, and the girl who got up on her feet.
Following his parishioner, Father Alexander begins to read his memoirs. “Such a story cannot remain a private affair of one person,” he reflects. - Humanity is one and how single organism consists of those who are, who were and those who will come to replace us. And if now some of us are in desperate pain, then why should this pain not touch those who will live here, say, a century later? Will they be any different from us? A priest, like a doctor, accompanies a person from the moment of birth to the day of the last. But unlike doctors, we are also concerned about his posthumous existence. After all, the fact that one of those who was nearby has already left the earthly world, in fact, does not change anything. His immortal soul continues to be my responsibility."
The "Scholias" of Father Alexander prove that pain, joy and hope in God are really the same at all times. People leave and come, but the same stories are made with them, sometimes they even rhyme with amazing accuracy. But what kind of end they will have, joyful or sad, is difficult to predict.
For example, Nadezhda Ivanovna recalls how, as a five-year-old girl, she lies on the stove on Christmas night and waits for Christ to come to her. In the evening, she took the festive treat to a husbandless woman with three children and heard from her mother: “The Lord will give you five times more.” But Christ does not come, and the girl is already beginning to fall asleep - when suddenly the inexplicable happens. “The door opens and He enters ... He is tall, thin. He took off his hat as he entered the house, and kept it in his hand all the time. Light blond wavy hair scattered over his shoulders .. Without saying a word, He went to the stove on which I was lying and looked at me affectionately, emitting light eyes. Then he stroked my head and handed me a bag… The next morning in the village they said that many people had him, but no one knew who he was, where he came from, what his name was. It remained a secret." Interestingly, Nadezhda Ivanovna says nothing about what was in the bag: the very fact of the appearance of the Stranger is much more significant than the gifts received. Father Alexander adds his Christmas story to this story: about how they had a Christmas tree for children in the parish - and one girl who wanted to tell him a rhyme did not have enough gift. “But I don’t need anything, father,” she said. "I'll tell you for free." “We talked to her for a long time,” Father Alexander concludes the story. “Indeed, there is no sweeter fellowship than the fellowship of friends.”
But Nadezhda Ivanovna talks about her brothers and sisters and recalls how one day her sister fell into a well, and her brother went down the chain after her and put her in a tub. People ran up and pulled both of them out. Father Alexander attributes his scholia to this story, perhaps the most tragic in the book. The sons of his parishioner, ten and twelve years old, perish under the ice: one falls through, and the other, trying to save him, also perishes. When they are found, the elder's fingers are folded for the sign of the cross. Probably, Father Alexander should even be reproached for this story: a naturalistic story about the death of children is always a blow below the belt, he knocks the reader down without a win. And, although the author further comprehends this story from a spiritual point of view, tells about the real Easter joy that the father of the dead children later experienced, horror does not leave the reader for a long time.
In general, there are a lot of stories about death, about old people and about children in the Scholia, and this is not surprising: birth and the first years of life, old age and death - this is the time when a person seems to be fanned by the breath of Eternity. The child has just come into the world, it is pure and God's creation can be seen so clearly in it. an old man prepares to cross the mysterious threshold, and, in the end, takes this step, but, as Father Alexander writes, "continues to be in the sphere of responsibility of the priest." The author shows his heroes in these borderline moments - because it is then that their souls are extremely open, and he tries to show us their depth, to convey his pain and love.
“Once upon a time, as a young priest, I took confession from a certain person,” writes Father Alexander. - And the more I listened to him, the more the desire to take a stick and a good move away grew. But the time of life flows, you grow old and understand that people should not be scolded or punished, they should be pitied. Today, I would just hug him and take pity on him. That is the mission of a priest – to pity people.”
Reading Father Alexander's book, you begin to regret with him... not only and not so much his heroes, but your old people and children - all those close to you who so lack pity and love. And since the soul comes to life, it means that the book is real, and the inscription "spiritual prose" on title page- not empty words. Truth.
Archpriest Alexander Dyachenko - Rector of the Church of the Tikhvin Icon of the Mother of God in the village of Ivanovo, Alexander Diocese. Born in Moscow in the family of a military man. He spent his childhood and youth in Belarus, graduated from the Grodno Agricultural Institute. Twice he was in the army - he served as a private and an officer. For almost ten years he worked as a train compiler on the railway. He became a priest at the age of forty after graduating from PSTGU. Today, Father Alexander is actively engaged in missionary and educational activities. He maintains his own blog in LiveJournal, where he posts his stories written in the style of life sketches. Of these stories, collections have been compiled - “The Weeping Angel”, “Overcoming”, “In the Circle of the World” and now - A new book"Scholia".
"Scholia" is an unusual story, where independent stories, the priest's stories about himself, his parishioners, friends and relatives are a kind of reflection, a detailed commentary on another line of narration - a real diary of a believing woman with a very difficult fate. This book is for those who appreciate the author's sincere intonation, who expect genuine human stories, warmth, consolation and, most importantly, love for people.
Presentation of the book “Scholia. Simple and complex stories about people” by Archpriest Alexander Dyachenko will be held in St. Petersburg:
February 16 at 19:00 - Spassky Center (Moskovsky pr., 5);
February 17 at 19:00 - Bookvoed on Vladimirsky store (Vladimirsky pr., 23).
