For the second night in a row, Petrovich slept with half an eye. He did not toss and turn from side to side and did not get up to smoke, but he woke up often. He lay there, looking at the light of the lantern outside the window, and thought. Then he forgot himself for a short sleep, only to wake up again an hour later. He, Pavel Petrovich Dronov, a driver with 30 years of experience, a man who had exchanged fifty rubles, for the second night in a row was disturbed by the words he heard at the sermon.

It was in July, on the day of the feast of the Holy Apostles. Petrovich, being a double birthday boy (personally and by the priest), decided to go to the service. First of all, the mother-in-law pestered me: go and go. Secondly, the church in the neighborhood was Peter and Paul. And thirdly, Petrovich thought, enough to indulge in vodka in the garage and in the yard with the peasants, you can go to church once on your name day. This unexpected and good thought came to Pavel Petrovich also because the name day was an anniversary. Dronov turned 50. But he did not want to think about it, and therefore refused to put the anniversary date among the reasons.

In the church, as always on a holiday, there were people - you can't push through. Dronov stood near the lectern with the icon of Peter and Paul, and he, fairly squeezed by the pilgrims, was often given candles with a short "for the feast." The heat and crowds did their job. Petrovich, who did not really know the service and did not know how to delve into the common prayer, soon got tired and repented that he celebrated his name day in a new way, and not as usual. He would have left long ago, but it was far from the door, and there was no other way to pass through the crowd of parishioners than with a fight. I felt better when they sang "I believe". Petrovich talked to the people about the words of the Symbol that he knew, and at the same time he felt some invigorating and unknown joy, from which he wanted either to cry or to hug everyone. The same thing happened at the Lord's Prayer. And then something happened that later took away sleep from the 50-year-old driver Pavel Petrovich Dronov, a man who bent a weaving nail with his fingers and was not distinguished by sentimentality.

The priest said something from the altar and fell silent. The veil was closed. A boy in a long robe came out and placed a candle in front of the closed Gate. People somehow immediately began to fuss, moved, whispered. Petrovich thought that it was time to leave the church, but he heard a loud "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit" and decided to stay. He had heard sermons before. Through the efforts of his precious mother-in-law, a little old woman, both mischievous and pious, Dronov listened to many cassettes in the car. During Great Lent, again at the request of his mother-in-law, he went to church on Sunday evenings to hear about the sufferings of Jesus Christ. But he did not like the sermons. I did not like the tone, solemn and loud. I didn't like words like "beloved in the Lord" or "my dear." Pavel Petrovich has already lived to see the years when words about love are more annoying than warming. The fact that people live out of habit and without joy, that no one really loves anyone, and priests are no exception, Petrovich understood long ago and had long come to terms with this.

But this time the words of Priest Dronov caught my attention. The priest was a stranger, apparently he had come to visit for the feast. He looked non-saintly, taller than average, large. Younger than Petrovich, but not a "child" (Petrovich's mother-in-law called those frail and beardless young priests who can be seen so often in our churches under construction or under renovation "children").

The priest began to talk about Peter and Paul, but quickly changed the subject and continued about Christ. That Christ is alive and that He is the same forever. That He is closer to us than the air we breathe and the clothes we wear. At the word of clothes, Pavel Petrovich shrugged his shoulders, felt his sweat-soaked shirt cling to his back, but instead of stuffiness he felt a cool breeze on his face, almost breath.

The priest went on to say that Christ had served us, had given all of Himself even to the point of the outpouring of blood, and now we must serve Him too. "But where will I find You, Lord?" the preacher said loudly and stopped. The temple froze and, holding its breath, waited for an answer.

"You're near," the preacher went on loudly. "You are in every neighbor of mine. If you're in the hospital, I can cover you with a blanket and sit at your bedside overnight. If you are undressed, I can give you my jacket or sweater. I can protect and heal, feed and comfort You, because everything I have done to my neighbor, You will take to Yourself personally."

Pavel Petrovich listened attentively. His head was empty, because his mind seemed to have left it and moved thirty centimeters lower. Stopping somewhere in the chest, the mind together with the heart absorbed the priest's words as dry earth absorbs water. The sermon ended with the priest calling blessed all the nurses, policemen, firefighters, cooks – all those who constantly teach, heal, feed and save people – in a word, serve Christ every day as they can serve.

The priest finished not so coherently and passionately. One after another, several babies cried in the arms of their mothers. The people fidgeted and whispered again. The priest said "Amen" and somehow sideways, awkwardly, returned to the altar. Soon the veil was pulled back, and communion began. And Petrovich went out into the formed passage and, crossing himself at the church, went home. He did not know, and could not know, that he was the only person who was imbued with the words of the sermon. All other parishioners will forget what they heard in the morning by the evening, and will sleep peacefully.

On that festive day, the Gospel net, thrown by an unknown priest in the Church of Peter and Paul, pulled only one fish from the depths to the shore. This fish was Pavel Petrovich Dronov, who celebrated his 50th birthday, a taxi driver with 30 years of experience, a man who was not distinguished by sentimentality.

The second night of reflection was already approaching dawn. "Not a surgeon, not an officer, not a teacher," Petrovich thought to himself, going through the list of professions based on philanthropy in his head.

"I'm a taxi driver!" Dronov suddenly said loudly, almost shouted, and sat down on the bed, quietly adding, "Damn it..."