St. George of Chekryak

 

                                                                                                                               St. George of Chekryak

 

In this first year, Fr. Boris often read, sometimes even aloud for Matushka, the story of the priest George Kossov, who served for two years in the village of Spas-Chekryak in the Oryol Governorate in an empty church, without parishioners. No one went to the young priest’s services. The evil one tempted him with the thought of tossing everything and running away. He was frightened. He went with his grief to the Optina Hermitage to Elder Ambrose. And St. Ambrose, seeing this sorrowful Batiushka, clairvoyantly spoke words of comfort to him.

 

Fr. Boris read these words of the great elder to the future Hieroconfessor Fr. George aloud and felt his heart respond with an instant surge of joy.

 

Fr. George wrote about it like this: “When Batiushka Ambrose saw me, without asking me anything, he directly said to me: ‘What, are you afraid, priest? He is one, and you are two!’ ‘How so, Batiushka?’ I said. ‘Christ God and you—that makes two! But the enemy—he’s alone… Go home,’ he said, ‘and don’t be afraid of anything to come; yes, a big stone church, and don’t forget to build it warm! God bless you!’ With that I left. I got home, and I felt a weight had been lifted from my chest. And all my fears fell away.”

 

By the prayers of the Elder, this batiushka’s church was soon filled with parishioners; it turned out to be a good, friendly parish. Fr. George grew up to be a real pastor and became known far beyond the borders of the Oryol Governorate. Having the gifts of clairvoyance and healing, the zealous pastor helped every tormented soul. According to eyewitnesses, Oryol pilgrims who would go see the great St. John of Kronstadt would hear from him: “Why did you come here? You have Fr. George Kossov!”

 

Then a large stone church was built in the village, with three altars, because the old church could no longer accommodate all the parishioners. Through the efforts of Fr. George, a hospital, an orphanage, and a grade school—the only in the district—were built in the village.

 

But in the second year of his ministry, Fr. Boris read this story less and less. He thought that he didn’t have an elder to pray like this. And he himself, apparently, was an unworthy priest. And the homilies that he spent a long time carefully preparing and then read in an empty church seemed to him quite pathetic and unconvincing.

 

Yes, he is a bad pastor. He’s too young, he looks completely unpresentable, and his beard doesn’t grow well. In embarrassment, he stammers from excitement. Who would listen to him—so indecisive and shy, and blushing when asked for a blessing? And he’s unable to pray. He has no boldness in prayer. And people don’t come to church.

 

By the end of the third year, Matushka took Kuzma and went to her parents’. She went for a visit, but hasn’t returned for three months already. Fr. Boris desperately missed her and the two-year-old Kuzma. Passing by his crib, he would stop and pick up his favorite toy—a teddy bear, stroking his velvety ears and the brown button of his nose, thoroughly chewed up by his son, and with a heavy sigh, would say to the teddy:

 

“Soon, soon our Kuzenka will come! Just wait a little bit more. It’s wet and slushy now. How can such a young one travel? Then there will be snow, and Sasha and Kuzenka will come. We’ll go sledding and build snowmen.”

 

But today Fr. Boris didn’t go to the teddy bear. If the bear could, he would have been surprised at how unusual Batiushka looked: Always tidy, today he came into the room in his shoes, went over to the icons, and fell to his knees. And if the teddy bear could hear, he would have heard Batiushka weeping:

 

“Lord, forgive me, the unworthy one! I answered that poor woman as if I were sure that You will hear my prayers! Lord, I don’t even know how I dared to give her hope. I don’t even know how to pray properly. Forgive me, please! Don’t confound Your servant Elizabeth’s hope in Your mercy! Be merciful, Lord, be merciful! The young child, Egorka, and his mother Tatiana—do not deprive them of Your mercy, O Lord our God! I also have my Sashenka and a son, my dear Kuzenka… And if they… Most Holy Theotokos, accept my unworthy prayer. Have mercy, O Lady, have mercy, and turn sorrow into joy. Do not forsake us sinners, having no boldness to look up to the heights of the glory of Your Son and our God!”

 

Batiushka didn’t remember how long his prayer continued, how many prostrations he made in the cold room before the holy icons. When he could no longer weep and pray, he struggled to his feet, but could not immediately straighten himself out. So, limping, he went over to the window, leaned his flaming forehead against the cold glass and, instead of the dirty blackness he saw a snow-white street. The falling snowflakes sparkled in the light of the streetlamps—everything seemed so clean, so joyful. Batiushka felt that his pain and anxiety were gone, and peace and quiet appeared in his soul. The clock struck one in the morning. It was already late, and he had to serve Liturgy tomorrow.

 

Quietly rejoicing at the spiritual joy he’d found, Fr. Boris went over to his son’s crib, stroked the head of the teddy bear, and smiled.

 

The next morning, Sunday, when he was already vested and preparing to serve Liturgy in the empty church, an unusual thing happened. First, Batiushka heard loud, happy voices. When he looked out of the altar, the first thing he saw was a shining white spot coming towards him. Fr. Boris went down the steps and saw that the spot was a huge bunch of white roses. They were being carried by the woman from the day before, Elizabeth. And behind her came a young man, an older man, two young girls, and a beaming old woman.

 

They bowed to him, eagerly trying to tell him something. It took some time for him to understand everything they were trying to say. Tanechka and Egorka were alive! And not just alive, but already transferred from the first floor of the ICU to the second, to the children’s department. And their recovery was instantaneous. The entire medical staff of the hospital was talking about the miracle.

 

The nurses were sitting by Tanya and Egorushka in agony, waiting. All of a sudden, they simultaneously saw how the dying patients’ vitals returned to normal, and the dying patients themselves woke up. Tatiana started asking about her child, and Egorka began to cry, demanding food. Nurses from different rooms rushed to the doctor on duty and collided on his doorstep. Most importantly, at the same time—at one in the morning! What a miracle!

 

Fr. Boris served the Liturgy and then gave a homily. They listened to him attentively: Elizabeth, the two men, the young girls, and the beaming old woman. Feodor and Claudia stood there joyful and content. The babushkas on the kliros sang unusually harmoniously. And when Fr. Boris finished his homily and everyone went up to the cross, he realized that not once had he gone astray. He hadn’t even stammered, because he wasn’t thinking about what he said or how he looked.

 

He was thinking about the people who were standing before him in anticipation of his pastoral word, his prayerful presence before God. He looked at them, his first true parishioners, and felt love for them. And that’s how it happened! You need to feel this love, this anxiety and pain. Then a pastor is born.

 

And the sheep hear His voice: and He calleth his own sheep by name, and leadeth them out… He goeth before them, and the sheep follow Him: for they know His voice. And a stranger will they not follow, but will flee from Him: for they know not the voice of strangers… The Good Shepherd giveth His life for the sheep (Jn. 10:3-5, 11).

 

When Fr. Boris was on his way home, it seemed to him he had grown ten years older. He was also very tired. But his soul was light.

 

When he got to his house, at first he couldn’t understand what was wrong. Then he realized the lights were on in the house and smoke was billowing from the chimney. Fr. Boris felt a sting in his nose and wanted to cry. Without hurrying to enter, he stood on the porch and listened to the sweet voice of Sasha and the chatter of Kuzenka reaching him. Snow was falling. And the heavens and the earth became completely different—new, snow-white.

 

Olga Rozhneva

Translated by Jesse Dominick

 

Pravoslavie.ru

 

7/24/2020