After the dusty noisy Moscow, the company of students and acquaintances, there is complete silence and desolation. I was like in heaven. The girl ran away for a day to her relatives or friends, her grandmother stoked a Russian stove, then slept. And I chose beautiful places for myself with a sketchbook over my shoulder and painted them in oil with such inspiration that even my mother, who was suspicious of my talents, liked them.

The rain poured down. In the Sloboda, where I lived, I heard the ringing of a bell from the church. Putting on my coat and a wide-brimmed panama hat, I ran to the church. "I'll get there quickly, in eight or ten minutes, I won't have time to get wet," I decided. Taking off my hat and coat, I began to shake off the drops of moisture on the floor. But then the left door to the altar opened. From the ambo, a young man walked towards me with a quick, light step. I froze with wet things in my hands, and the young man, passing by, nodded his head slightly and said: "Hello." His gaze, friendly and cheerful, pierced my heart like an arrow from a fairy tale. And it was on the feast of the Vladimir Mother of God, my patroness, since on the day of this icon I was born.

From Father Boris I learned that the young man was a psalmist, he had just been demobilized from the army, that he lived next to the church, that he knew the service very well from his father, who served here for thirty years in the rank of deacon, until he was arrested and died in prison. Only then did I learn that it would be possible to ordain a psalmist to the deacon if he were married. "But Volodya does not even look at girls, he is too modest, shy," said Father Boris. This was confirmed by his respectable wife-mother, who dreamed of seeing me as her daughter-in-law.

And I had a thought: "Although I dream of going to a monastery somewhere, my mother does not want to hear about it. And without the blessing of parents, it is impossible. But to sacrifice my virginity in order to open the way to the Throne of God for a man, I would agree to this." It is clear that I was now drawn to church like a magnet, and I no longer missed church services. And after the Vladimir service, there was a Saturday service, then a Sunday service, and then the Tikhvin Icon of the Mother of God, for which a service was also announced in Grebnevo.

It was raining again. Again the church was empty, only a dozen old women came, and those who were younger went to a neighboring parish about twenty kilometers away, where the patronal feast day was held. Only Volodya sang on the kliros, and a little hunched old woman came out to read the Six Psalms. Rain, thunder, clouds are moving, it is dark in the church. The old woman began to turn the page, the candle in her hand went out, the book slammed shut, and its quiet reading stopped. Volodya came down from the ambo, lit a candle, opened the book, and grandmother continued reading. In Moscow churches, I have not seen such a break in the service. In the evening, discussing the service with Father Boris, I said:

"I could also read the Six Psalms.

"All right," said Father Boris, "go to the kliros."

And now I am already standing next to Volodya, who opens the Book of Hours to me. And my heart rejoices.

Paradise in the soul

Only God knows how joyful my soul was that summer when I met Volodya. I didn't reveal my feelings to anyone except the Lord in prayer. But in front of my dear father, I could not hide anything, I knew that he would understand me. I said:

"Daddy, pay attention to the psalmist, I like him very much.

In the evening, when my father and I left the church, I could hardly wait to ask my father if he liked Volodya. We walked along a shady linden alley, dad was thoughtful...

"Yes, what a fine young man," my father answered me.