The road to the church...
The story we offer below was printed in one of the secular newspapers. Perhaps it will prove a guide for people who have fallen into a like state. Mrs Tamar, who tells us this story, has borne grievous trials. All that she tells us was for her family a true tragedy...
“I tried not to meddle in my son's life, the more so since I saw that my son was clever and gifted. It seemed to me that this would be enough for Dato to grow into a successful and worthy person.
In childhood he had a multitude of enthusiasms — collecting stamps, joining creative circles, drawing. We, his parents, only helped him along. With his schooling too he coped splendidly. When he grew up, he went on to study at a prestigious institute of higher education and became interested in photography. The new interest brought him new friends. The doors of our house were always open to them. After photography (in which my son showed a great gift) came rock music. Before their public performances Dato and his friends rehearsed at home, which caused the neighbours' displeasure; and although I felt awkward before them, I did not hinder my son: this, after all, was my boy's world.
The trouble came later. I noticed it in my son's restless gaze. Do not think that it was love: in love he was always fortunate. The girls he chose were always beautiful and refined. The cause of my son's restlessness was drugs. It is probably so: a multitude of friends and unwatched freedom bring with them such an unpleasant result. “Unpleasant result” is putting it mildly: for our family it was a tragedy.
Not at the first stage, but in time my son too understood that this was a horror. What did we not do; with the help of relatives we had him take a three-month course of treatment in Greece, in an expensive clinic, but to no avail...
Only those who have touched this trouble will understand me. They will know what a hell our family passed through... And just when it seemed to me that an end had been set to everything for which I existed and laboured, salvation came. Dato began to go to church. This was my son's own finding. For his life had been like a search. He grew calm. His troubled eyes grew calm, and his aching body; the Lord worked a wonder. What drug addicts fight for years, what physicians find it hard to do, God was pleased to accomplish (Mrs Tamar made the sign of the cross).
Of late Dato, who had been apathetic and indifferent to everything, was becoming again what he had been before. Just as he used to do in childhood, he set about the study of the Christian faith with great enthusiasm and drew us along with him. The Lord did not forsake us. I felt this from my very first entering the church. Before that it seemed to me that I went there for Dato's sake; but when I had entered the church, I felt that I needed this myself. It is hard to convey this; a person must experience it, and only then will he understand what I wish to say. Unlike his former enthusiasms, this fateful “enthusiasm” proved for my son to be the last. He was tonsured a monk, which our family met with great joy. Perhaps some will reproach me and think: why should a mother rejoice at her son's monasticism; would it not have been better for her son to have a family, a wife, children? But it seems to me that our conclusions are drawn for us by life and by experience. I have seen my past and my son's past, and for this very reason I know the worth of our present day. Only one thing grieves my heart: why were our eyes not opened earlier, why did we not from the very beginning take the Lord as our guide? For then we should not have had to pass through so much pain.”
