One More Healing of Father Mikhail
It took place on January 10th, 2018, soon after I had written down Father Mikhail’s childhood stories. I declared that the theme of the healing would be search of thought forms reflecting the beating him as a child by his tormentor, the monastery janitor whom he called behind his back “the cockroach.”
As always, I started with prayer, asking help and protection from the Mikhail’s guardians. However, what was shown to me exceeded all my expectations proving one more time that our guides chose healing goal for a healer, not healer’s mental speculations. Instead of beating scenes, my third eye stood passive and in pitch darkness behind my closed eyes I heard the quiet cry of a baby.
Was someone crying behind the window? But people never stopped on our clean streets for a talk or rest, there were no benches for sitting there and letting babies cry. Nevertheless, the sound of a baby’s cry became louder. Suddenly, my “third eye” vision lit up, and I saw a country bed. The stretched hands of a nun were holding a crying baby: a newly born was taken away from the woman in the bed. The cry became heart breaking. I, who stopped crying decades ago, broke into tears watching how the baby was taken away from the nun who had given birth for her son, conceived in sin according to the Church believes at a time.
The visions about Father Mikhail’s early ages continued to flow. Now the baby’s cry came from the monastery’s large and so old-fashioned kitchen. The naked child was stretched out on a meat cutting table on a rag next to a milk jar. A joyful nun, pacifying baby with quiet lullaby, poured some milk into saucer. In one deft movement, she tore a piece of cloth from the rag on the table, wrapped crumbs of bread in it, dabbed the bread roll into milk and popped it into the mouth of a screaming baby. The child fell silent for a moment, and when it began to cry again, a new piece of torn cloth appeared in the hands of the merry nun, and the process of feeding the child in the monastery kitchen continued.
A pair of blackish eyes stopped joyful nun’s lullaby. Baby was packed fast into the remains of the rag beneath him and the bundle moved from kitchen table onto greedy hands of a man in janitor’s typical uniform. Then he saw a pack of money on the table… The janitor put the bundle with the baby back on the kitchen table, and sunk into money counting pleasure. Often wetting with saliva his right hand’s big and pointing fingers, he decided to recount the unusually thick pack of rubles. Then he put this pack into his pocket and started to move away from the table.
“You forgot something,” said the ironic voice of an older nun who appeared from nowhere. Janitor returned and pick up the baby who lifted its eyes and meeting janitor’s face started to cry hysterically.
Was it shown me exactly as I described it here, or it was my imagination that finished the description of this exiting transaction in the monastic kitchen? I was emotionally involved in my “3rd eye video” to this extent that there was no way to separate one from the other… Maybe I must to determine for myself, in what genre this story would unfold? In Bangsian style, or by rules of supernatural fiction, like some ghost story?
Suddenly, the colorful waves started to multiple, filling the healing space – my “third eye” space, or the 4D space, where we were allowed to train our imagination, so crucial to have it in afterlife. A strange voice told.
“You would see as much rolls in your healing space, as you saw empty alcohol bottles during your previous healing.” The same voice added.
“The time for this cleansing is over. Please, close the session and take some rest.”
“But what about the “cockroach” whom I was supposed to whip today?”
“He was not a reason, but rather a consequence of circumstances!”
OK, I have imagination, I know it. But now I ask, what would happen, if I allow my imagination move forward into future of this soul, and seek an answer to the question, if the day would come, and he would reconcile with his mother, how it may look?
My imagination obliged, the scenes of reconciliation of Father Mikhail and his mother started to prop up in my mind involuntarily.
A Road Ahead
Yes, the day arrived, when Father Mikhail, now in spirit, took the ride toward monastery N, now the astral copy of once an earthy monastery where he was born. At the entrance gate, he asked about the nun named Vera and received a suspiciously swift answer that none of their monastics were ever been called Vera, in English – Faith!
“Is she still alive?” – was Father Mikhail’s next question, as the fierce denial of the existence of the nun named Vera means for him exactly the opposite. He assumed that they had expelled her from their ranks and decided not to talk about her. The icy look of the nun at the gate told him that if he would not be aided by share luck, he will return home empty handed.
From afar, a cart loaded with empty metal cans was rushing toward the gate. The metal surfaces beat against each other producing sound of timpani in a modern orchestra where ardent drummers beat them with a reason or without it, as if keeping the melody from sounding too simple and old fashioned for ears of contemporary folks. The nun at the entrance gate stopped the driver, and said to Father Mikhail that this carriage can give him a free ride to the city, to the church near the University.
“They want to get rid of me and my questions as soon as possible, something is fishy here,” thought Father Mikhail and soon enough found himself examining the crowd of the beggars who had positioning themselves on concrete porch around the church, as it was a custom to do down there during centuries.
… He recognized Vera immediately despite her being cloaked as a very poor commoner. As other beggars, she was begging for living, sitting on the cold concrete porch next to the legless cripple on the cusps. They seemed to be well acquainted, because time to time they exchanged a quiet word or two.
Father Mikhail found a bench near flowerbed across the church and being sure that busy Vera will not recognize him, sat to look what would happen next.
The church bells started to buzz inviting the parishioners to attend the evening sermon. And as the believers were moving toward church entrance, the coins and sometimes paper bills were falling into beggars’ outstretched hands or into cups set on the ground next to them.
When the flow of parishioners started to thin, out of the church appeared a young and joyous nun in professional outfit that looks familiar to Father Mikhail. She was heading straight toward Vera, and it looked that Vera was waiting for her. She produced from her professional uniform a sparkling bottle of vodka, and stretched it toward smiling Vera. It was a professional exchange. Vera surrendered two bowls, hers and the crippled one’s to nun, and both bowls disappeared in depth of her gown. It turned out that they were begging for funds to repairing the monastery. Now as they had given money away, they had free time, and they could enjoy a drink or two of sparkling vodka. The legless cripple was rubbing his hands joyfully.
But suddenly Vera, looking young in astral world, as if years had no impact on her, was looking straight forward at a man on the garden bench across, froze, and then whispered, probably intending her words to the crippled man.
“Go away, my son has come to see me!”
“I will better stay,” he answered. “A presence of a witness never hurts.”
Father Michael looked absent minded, lost. Maybe he regretted coming so far. But the presence of the crippled man was holding him glued to the bench. Vera recognized him, and his plan to slip away unnoticed would not do anymore.
“Follow me,” — Vera waved her hand to Father Mikhail, pointing in direction of uncut bushes on the back side of the church.
Vera with sparkling bottle of vodka in her hand, was leading the group, and crippled man on his cusps were closing the rank, as if guarding the priest in case, if he would suddenly change his mind and attempt to escape!
The wild bushes formed a gazebo-like area with a small table and two simple garden benches. Vera picked from the ground some used paper cups, washed them under garden watering hose and proudly placed them on the table. The cripple had already opened the vodka bottle, and Vera poured equal amount of transparent liquid in cups. She said, “Na zdorovye!” – “For your health,” or “Bottoms up!” and swallowed her portion of vodka without hesitation, as a person used to down a gulp of strong alcohol without the snack. The other followed the suite.
Nobody could produce a single word. There was silence. Crippled looked aside. Vera poured the second help of transparent liquid into cups. And they downed it again wordlessly. Father Mikhail looked at the crippled with vexation. The latter looked again aside but did not leave the scenery. No one had a word to say. Vera poured the third cup of vodka into cups.
Father Mikhail get it down, put cup back on the garden table, an old one, washed by so many rains for so long years that it has swelled, crumbled, and had decorative green moss spots here and there.
“Forgive me!” pressed Father Mikhail through his frozen lips.
The crippled threw up his huge brown eyes, suddenly burning, with a glow of unearthly light of forgiveness, and then he lowered them again, looking aside.
Father Mikhail asked suddenly, “Zhivesh to kak?” – “How are you doing?”
“I am fine. You saw, I am now a somebody, I raise money for reconstruction monastery church. I help Vanya, you see, he gets more money than I do, but he cannot get anything from store being legless. So, I take care of him. Now I have someone to exchange a word, to talk. He never rebuked me, did not shame me, he’s a good man. And you came along. I am now OK! You will be OK as well.”