A bus arrived on the first of November. I will not say from which part of Athens. On the first of November, Saint David is celebrated.
The priest and the people sat in the hall, about fifty people, and I decided to tell them something that had deeply moved me. I had learned it that summer. I will tell it to you.
While I was speaking, a man and a woman kept making the sign of the cross over their mouths continuously. I thought they must have woken up early, and because we had been traveling and were tired, the poor people wanted to yawn, and that was why they were crossing their mouths. That is what I understood.
So listen to what I told them.
Some pilgrims had come to the monastery. They had visited a church of the Virgin Mary in Karpathos. There is a large church there, very beautiful, surrounded by cliffs down to the sea, and the only entrance is from the front. There is also a square where the people of Karpathos sit together.
When the Divine Liturgy ended, the old priest said, “Do you see this chandelier? Such a magnificent chandelier. We have not seen one like it in any church in Greece. I ask the gentleman who donated it to come forward and tell us why he made this gift.”
A man came forward and said the following:
“I am forty-six years old. Forty years ago, when I was six, my mother died. My father worked on ships and with sponge diving. He could not raise me alone, so after a short time, he married another woman.
We came here to the church of the Virgin Mary and sat in the square, as people usually do. As evening began to fall, my stepmother took me by the hand, led me to a place where nobody else was, and threw me off the cliff.
She returned with crocodile tears, shouting, ‘I lost my child! The child fell! I lost my child!’
My father went out of his mind. It had become dark, and there was no way for anyone to go down the cliff. The jackals began to cry out. My father, together with the village president, the police officer, the teacher, and everyone else, sat at the edge of the cliff, calling out:
‘Kostaki, don't be afraid. In the morning we will come and get you.’
All night long, this continued.
As soon as dawn broke, they heard my voice.
‘Dad, I'm fine. I'm on the beach over there.’
I named a specific beach that they all knew.
They thought they had gone crazy. The people gathered all the ropes in town. A young man tied himself to a large tree and climbed down the cliff. He found me and brought me back up.
As soon as my father embraced me, he said:
‘My Kostaki, why, my boy? Why did you leave us in agony all night if you were alive?’
I replied:
‘Dad, when Mother threw me, some people caught me.’
She later died in prison; policemen were present.
‘A lady took me into her arms.’
My father understood.
‘And why didn't you call out?’
‘Because the lady would cover my mouth and say, “Not now, my boy, because they will kill each other.” But when morning came, she told me, “Now call out,” and then she left.’
The priest understood. He took me by the hand and led me into the church.
‘Was this lady Saint Irene? Saint Catherine? Saint Paraskevi?’
‘No,’ I kept saying.
When we reached the iconostasis, and I saw the icon of the Virgin Mary, I said:
‘This is the lady who held me in her arms all night.’
Then the man said:
‘This Virgin Mary, who became my mother in my difficult hour, did she not deserve a gift? I went to Canada, studied chemistry, and with the first money I earned, I donated this chandelier.’
I was so moved by this story that whenever anyone came that year, whether a few people or many, I would say the following:
‘Sit down and let me tell you a story. Let me tell you how our Virgin Mary runs to help us even when we do not call her.’
As I was telling this story on the bus, when I finished describing the miracle, I continued:
‘Do you see, my Christians, our Virgin Mary—’
I did not have time to say anything else.
Those people who had been crossing their mouths were demon-possessed. I did not know it, but the others on the bus knew, and they grabbed them because they stood up to beat me.
Feeling safe because they were being restrained, I said the following:
‘What is it, devil? Were you offended because we are speaking about the Virgin Mary?’
And they replied:
‘You filthy people! In this filthy monastery,
you are ruining my plans!’
They were insulting her. They did not want to hear about her. They did not want to hear about her son.
I tell you, they were so ready to beat me. But since I was safe, I said the following:
‘Since it bothers you so much, I will keep talking about it.’
However, I assure you, when I left the monastery, a nun told me the following:
‘Do not go around telling this story, my child, because who knows what temptation will come upon us. Every time we tell it, some temptation follows.’
That is how angry the devil becomes.
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