"And what is it?" I ask, freezing with pleasure from the ache in my teeth. An old man arrived in time with a bucket. He explained to me that the house was a bathhouse. Both old and young, sick and healthy bathe in it. No harm has been and will not be done to anyone by it. This is about the fact that someone is afraid of getting sick. Quite the opposite. All the ailments will come out with God's help. And if you are still far away," and he looked at me, "then after bathing here you will go wherever you want. The water is not simple. I leave my backpack on the street and for some reason hesitate to open the doors of the bathhouse. Several monks are dressed there. They dress slowly. I say hello and sit down in an empty corner. The floor of the dressing room is dirty, apparently from shoe prints. But there is a clean strip in the bath. I undress and walk along it. In the bathhouse there are icons on the wall. Very clean. Wooden steps disappear into the dark depths. There was a whiff of cold and dampness. The monks are leaving, I hear the door knocking. The voice of a tall young monk addressing someone on the street, "Wait, sisters, there's a man there. It will come out, you will go." Therefore, a man should hurry. He crossed himself, and off he went. On the third step it seemed to me that my heart was no longer beating. Why delay? I jumped into the depths. To be honest, for a moment I did not understand whether I was alive or dead. Jumping out, I try to grab air, but I can't. But a moment later I hear the joyful beating of my heart. I wanted to plunge into this dark water again...

Getting dressed, I feel with every cell how some unknown force comes along with the warmth. As if there was no long way, fatigue. But I don't have time to listen to myself, I have to hurry. There are more and more women on the street. I came to the monastery when there was a short lull in his daily life. The monks scattered to their cells, and the pilgrims were not to be seen. There is time to look around.

The monastery is very ancient. Now it resembles a large construction site. Indeed, there is a lot of work to be done here. What can you do, time is merciless. Even the monastery buildings, once made conscientiously, solidly, could not stand. And it must be restored. There are not many monks. Fifteen people. These are mainly young people. Pilgrims help them in restoration. Everyone is welcome here and everyone will find a place.

I see a young man, who looks like a boy. A very quiet voice, something is wrong with his neck: his head does not turn. Looking at something or someone, in this case at me, he turns his whole body.

"You wait a moment." Father Joseph must pass, if he gives a blessing, then you can stay. You're a pilgrim, aren't you?"

"To some extent, yes, but I have to go on tomorrow."

"Wait anyway. Though... You, probably. Hungry? There's a kitchen in that shed, they shouldn't have cleaned everything yet.

I thank Andrey, that's the name of the gatekeeper, and go to the kitchen. Several women, young and old, were clearing tables and washing dishes. They worked sparingly, in silence. I didn't explain anything. As soon as I sat down on the bench, two plates appeared - with boiled potatoes, cucumbers, a glass of compote and a lot of bread. However, is it worth describing every minute of your stay in the monastery? For me, they are precious and unique, who knows how interesting it is to others. Time seems to have stopped. I left my backpack and went to wander around the monastery, from church to church, from building to building. Suddenly, the summer heat was replaced by streams of water from the sky. They seemed to serve as a signal - the monastery came to life, many people appeared. Everyone was busy with something, I was the only one who stood fascinated and looked at the domes. The rain washed them. Drops flowed down, and the leaves on the old trees shone like spring. But just as unexpectedly, everything calmed down. The sun appeared and sparkled on the domes, foliage, and breast crosses of the monks. I recognized one of them. Tall, thin - the one who was in the bath. He was in a hurry somewhere. Soon I understood where and why. Over the monastery, over the surroundings, over the world, a high and clear bell ringing was heard. And froze. Then the second, the third. More and more confident. The doors of the temple opened. The service began. A short elderly man, dressed as they dressed in Russia fifty years ago, was waiting for it. High boots, kosovorotka. The face is peasant, intelligent, the movements are thorough, unhurried. He willingly told me that the service would be festive, because tomorrow there would be a Council of the 12 Apostles. And as you know, the apostle was also John the Theologian, whose name the monastery bears. The man was born in Ufa, where he lived, he came to Moscow on the business of his church, but he could not help coming here.

- This monastery is glorious, there have always been many righteous people here. People say that even under the Horde, many miracles were performed here. At that time, he was still an intercessor for the Russian land. How can it not rise, how can it not be reborn?

Indeed, I suddenly remembered one of the legends I had heard, directly related to the Monastery of St. John the Theologian. They say that there lived in the vicinity of the monastery a shepherd, an ordinary peasant boy. He had a cherished dream, he really wanted to become an icon painter. But the master did not take him as an apprentice, they said that he was untalented. The shepherd prayed all day long, asking God for help. And once, when the boy was sitting in tears at the monastery gates, he did not even notice how he fell asleep. And in a dream John the Theologian appeared to him and comforted him, and said that he would be an iconographer. And so it happened. And soon the fame of the young iconographer reached Ryazan, and the prince of Ryazan wanted to invite yesterday's shepherd to work with him. But the prince's court iconographer was jealous, and then the prince decided to arrange a competition between them. And our hero drew a falcon, and so skillfully that everyone gasped: the bird was as if it were alive. And the falcon suddenly fluttered, spread its wings and disappeared into the high sky. It became clear who won the bet. The service ended late in the evening. I have not been so tired for a long time and for a long time it has not been so pure and bright in my soul. The eldest among the pilgrims, Alexander, took care of me. We had dinner, and he escorted me to a two-story brick house, which had once been a sports school, and even earlier a monastery hotel.

"All the surrounding fields belonged to the monastery," Alexander tells me on the way. "And now you see for yourself what a ruin is all around. But never mind," and he uttered the same words as the man from Ufa, "the monastery will rise, it will certainly rise.

A year ago, Alexander read an announcement in the newspaper that helpers were needed in the restoration of the monastery. I took a vacation and came here. Liked? Not the right word. He felt that this was his place. Now he lives here as a novice. He is seriously thinking about becoming a monk. To serve God - what could be better than this?

- There are not many novices and pilgrims, but they work conscientiously, not out of fear, not for money, as in the world. It was a great joy to communicate with the monks, especially with the abbot, Father Abel. In general, choose the time and come here for at least a week...

So we came to the former sports school for conversations. The men slept in a large room on the first floor, the women on the second. I was immediately advised to hide things more securely in my backpack, even sneakers. Rats. They gnawed off half of one guy's sneaker. The room is in order. People are gradually approaching. The lights are turned off relatively early, but you also need to get up before dark. Alexander is a real commander. Before he turned off the light, I had time to take a good look at the room. There are many small icons, reproductions of paintings and photographs depicting the apostles, holy martyrs, the last Russian Tsar Nicholas Alexandrovich. There are especially many images of St. Sergius of Radonezh and St. Seraphim of Sarov. Pray. Already in the dark, as in distant childhood, a conversation arises. People are different. Some reasoning and questions seem naïve to me, but there is so much faith, sincerity, and purity in this naivety that I am ashamed of my thoughts. I begin to tell you about Optina. I feel that no one is sleeping. At first, Alexander grumbles from his seat: "Tomorrow I'll wake everyone up at five, you'll see," but soon he himself enthusiastically joins the conversation. We are talking about miracles, about the holy people of Russia, about the future of Russia. I hear the voice of Andrey, an old man from Ufa, those whom I met recently, or rather, just now. It was not until midnight that silence reigned over our room. Although, no. A powerful snoring was heard from the bed of the Ufa resident, but I no longer heard it.