A Story of Faith, Love, and Inner Transformation — Illuminated by Elder Sophrony
These words were spoken to me by a woman I met not long ago in Saint Petersburg. Her name is Ekaterina Polyakova. She is the mother of five children, the daughter of an artist, the wife of an iconographer, and an English teacher. But none of these titles fully captures what one senses in her presence — an unmistakable feeling of inner peace and light. Her life has been filled with remarkable encounters, unexpected journeys, and quiet revelations. Perhaps the most transformative of these was her meeting with Elder Sophrony (Sakharov).
In this conversation, Ekaterina shares her spiritual path — from growing up in Soviet Leningrad to joining the countercultural hippie movement, from finding solace in Orthodox churches to encountering the monastic community in Essex. Along the way, she reflects on her experiences as a mother, her years at Optina Monastery, and the ever-renewing search for Christ.
Ekaterina: My spiritual path has always been quiet and inward. Some people speak of a sudden moment of revelation — an unmistakable encounter with God that changes everything. That was never my experience. I’ve always simply known that God exists, even though our family didn’t attend church.
I was born into a family of artists, and I think I sensed God’s presence in creativity — perhaps in the beauty of paintings or the act of making something with care. My mother once told me a story from my childhood: one New Year’s Eve, the adults had gone out visiting while we children stayed home. I was sitting under the tree, painting — a set of watercolor paints was my traditional New Year’s gift. When my parents returned, they found I had filled a large sheet of paper with the image of a great crucifixion. Why I painted it, I can’t say — I don’t remember. But that image remained with us in the house for years.
The next flash of awareness came at school. I remember we had to recite Darwin’s theory during a biology lesson. And I was gripped by the thought: How can I say something that isn’t true? I was terrified they’d ask me to explain it at the board…
My mother had us baptized — my brother and me — when I was ten. But it wasn’t until I was in eighth grade, around 1983, that she herself came to faith. She embraced it with fervor. Our home began to fill with believing friends. They all attended services at the Theological Academy in Leningrad, which had become a kind of haven for young seekers, artists, and musicians. But all of them were really her friends — I remained on the periphery, just observing.
In tenth grade, I met two boys from Petrogradskaya Side, and together we began going to services at the Church of Saint Vladimir. We eventually visited other churches too, searching for a place we could call our own. We found something strangely compelling in the sacrament of confession (laughs). There was something mysterious and otherworldly about it.
At Saint Vladimir’s, I met some of the “old-timers” — those long-time parishioners who seemed like living history. One of them copied the lives of the saints by hand. That, too, felt like a mystery. Around that time, I first read the account of the “Standing of Zoe” and the life of Saint Mary of Egypt. I was deeply moved. These early glimpses stayed with me and confirmed the sense of truth I already carried within.
After finishing school, I embraced the hippie lifestyle. I worked for a while in Saint Petersburg, then took to traveling. In the autumn of 1985, I set off for Moscow on a whim — no destination, no plan. Back then, the hippie scene had gathering places scattered throughout the city. One such place was nicknamed “Mishka” — a meeting spot near Lomonosov University. That was the era of underground rock clubs. The cultural underground was starting to emerge into the open, and alongside it, religious life, too, was slowly stirring. The authorities were still watching, of course — but by then, they mostly observed without intervening.
I showed up at one of these gatherings and heard people talking about a trip to the Trinity-Sergius Lavra — one of the most important monasteries in Russia, near Moscow. “If you want to come,” someone said, “just be at the train station tomorrow morning and ask for Romashka.”
The next morning at six, I arrived at the station. I looked around and spotted someone — bright red hair, long, flowing, with a grin from ear to ear. I thought, That must be him.
“Are you Romashka?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
And that’s how I met my first friend in Moscow — Volodya Lukashin. A few others joined us, and we boarded the suburban train bound for the Lavra. We stood out — long hair, colorful clothes — it was a clear challenge to social norms, and people stared at us wide-eyed.
We arrived at the monastery, went to confession, and venerated the relics. Everything felt radiant, inspired. But as soon as we stepped outside, we were promptly taken in by the police — no doubt because of our appearance. I wasn’t even eighteen at the time. Romashka told them, “She’s my sister; she’s come to visit me,” and that’s how we became bonded as siblings — at the feet of Saint Sergius.
But we weren’t afraid of anything back then. Our faith was fresh and full of joy. They let us go, and we all went to a café where we boldly prayed aloud before eating. I don’t even do that now, but back then we had a kind of daring purity. That same evening, still in Moscow, the police picked us up again. We laughed and said, “You’re arresting us again? We already spent time at the Lavra!”
The friendships we formed during those pilgrimages to Saint Sergius endured. It was a kind of parallel world — hippie in spirit, yet somehow always aligned with the Church. I didn’t go to church often, but when I did, it meant something to me. In Moscow, six of us shared a small apartment. The first thing we did was bring in a large icon of Christ the Savior. We all longed to live under some kind of truth — to have God with us. We attended the nearest parish, tried to find work, and simply lived.
Back in Petersburg, the spiritual life at home remained vibrant. In fact, my mother had become something of a center for a growing group of believers. We lived on Old Nevsky Prospect, not far from the Alexander Nevsky Lavra, and we would often attend services at the Theological Academy.
Most parish churches at the time were still filled mostly with elderly women, but the Academy and the Seminary drew younger people — students, seekers, artists. After the Sunday Liturgy, we would often host what we called “Orthodox agape meals” at our home. These gatherings went on for years—from 1984 until about 1990. Different people would come and go, but it was always lively, meaningful, and completely unlike the drab reality of Soviet life outside our doors.
I remember once we hosted a baptism at our home. Among the guests was Boris Grebenshchikov — one of Russia’s most iconic rock musicians—along with his son Gleb. We baptized Gleb that day, and I became his godmother. Boris Borisovich himself was cautiously exploring Orthodoxy at the time. We were close for a while — I even visited their home.
And what was your mother’s role in all this?
My mother came from artistic circles — she was the wife of a painter and had many creative friends. She worked as a typist at the Academy of Sciences and LISI (the Leningrad Institute of Civil Engineering). Around that time, she began typing up theology students’ dissertations and final papers from the Theological Academy. Many fascinating people passed through our home during those years. It was a time of deep inspiration.
But while for many of them it was like discovering a hidden pearl, for me the path took shape a little differently. I didn’t want simply to follow in my mother’s footsteps, though in the end, our paths converged. My heart was drawn elsewhere. One of my favorite places at the time was Pechory. I made pilgrimages there on my own, to Pskov and the women’s monastery in Pühtitsa (in what is now Estonia). I loved monastic life, and it drew me in quietly, deeply.
At the same time, I was still part of the hippie movement. I spent a few more years traveling, wandering through different places. But gradually I began to feel that this life no longer nourished me. The ideals we tried to live by — brotherhood, sincerity — were good in themselves. There was a shared desire for honest, heartfelt relationships, and our opposition to the norms of Soviet society brought us together.
But at some point, I realized something was missing. There was no unifying core — no spiritual foundation. We were gathering around… well, around nothing in particular. And without that anchor, everything eventually fell apart. Still, I don’t disown that part of my life. Even today, many of the same people still keep in touch, cherishing those memories. If it still strengthens them, I’m glad. It gave me strength once, too.
That said, some are resentful toward those who left the movement. They call them traitors — say they abandoned the cause. Well… maybe I am a traitor, (smiles) It is what it is.
We used to travel to Riga quite often. There, we had a tent camp in the woods. One of the key figures in our group at the time was a hippie from Minsk nicknamed Batya — “Father.” He introduced us to a priest named Father Andrei Lemeshonok. Father Andrei already knew my mother, and when I later traveled to Minsk, I often stayed with them. He was extraordinary — so full of love, so humble. A truly remarkable man.
Looking back, I see that even this “hippie” life constantly overlapped with Orthodoxy. We’d be camping in the forest, and then on Sunday we’d take the train to a nearby monastery in Riga for the Divine Liturgy. We brought small icons with us to the campsite. We even read The Unquenchable Lampada aloud around the fire — a spiritual memoir by Borislav Smirnov that deeply touched us. It may sound childish now, even a little naïve — but it was real. That was my experience, and I don’t renounce it.
How did you make a living during those years?
We worked throughout the year. I had a job as a secretary at a university, and I also did some restoration work. We’d earn what we could and then travel. Even among the hippies, we worked — pulling weeds in sugar beet fields, picking mandarins. None of us wanted to live in idleness. Still, the broader hippie philosophy leaned toward doing nothing. I don’t judge that, but it wasn’t for me.
In time, I drifted away from the hippie movement. I moved back home, began attending the Theological Academy more regularly, and joined the church choir. Then, in 1988, something unexpected happened. Among our circle of friends was a theologian named Valery Lepakhin. He lived in Hungary, where he taught Russian, and often brought student groups to Russia. Many of them visited our home. Some were even baptized there.
Through Valery we met a Hungarian woman named Agnes. She told us about a pilgrimage in Poland—an annual five-day procession on foot to the Holy Mount of Grabarka, where a women’s monastery stands. I immediately said, “I want to go.”
At that time, the revival of Church life in Russia was just beginning. In most churches, especially in the cities, you would rarely see young people. So when I arrived in Poland, I was amazed. The pilgrimage began on a Sunday, and each day we walked about 30 kilometers, singing spiritual hymns as we passed through villages and small towns. Many pilgrims carried wooden crosses on their shoulders.
In every village we passed, church bells rang to greet us. People welcomed us with bread and salt. Some villagers joined the procession. We spent the nights in people’s homes or inside local churches. It was astonishing.
After five days, we reached Mount Grabarka. We climbed the hill of crosses, and—according to tradition—we circled the church on our knees three times.
When I returned to Saint Petersburg, I was in a state of spiritual awe. And yet, back home, everything felt grey and heavy. The great domes of the city’s churches, the cold stone... it all felt lifeless by comparison. I grew a little despondent. Still, our small community remained, and we drew close to Father Vasily Ermakov, a beloved priest who served at Seraphim Cemetery. Many of us became close friends through him.
One day, a book came into our hands that changed everything: Saint Silouan the Athonite. Everyone in our group loved it—especially the older members. They read it over and over. I hadn’t read it yet, but I could already sense the deep impression it was making.
Around that time, a man named Pavle Rak—a theologian—joined our circle. During one conversation, he casually mentioned that the author of the book was still alive.
“What do you mean—alive?” we asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “that’s Father Sophrony. He’s an elder himself. He lives in England, at the Monastery of Saint John the Baptist in Essex. I’m planning to visit him soon.”
Our hearts were stirred. We immediately decided to write a letter. Inspired and full of zeal, we drafted a message: “We are a small Orthodox community from Saint Petersburg. Our spiritual father is Father Vasily Ermakov from the Seraphim Cemetery parish…” We sent our greetings to the elder and thanked him for his book.
At the end of the letter, I added a personal note: “If I ever find myself in England, may I come visit your monastery? Would you give your blessing?” (At the time, I had met some young people from England in one of our churches, and they had invited me to visit.)
Then, to our amazement, we received a reply! The letter came from Elder Sophrony’s cell attendant, Hieronymus—now known as Father Seraphim (Pokrovsky). He wrote that Father Sophrony had been deeply moved by our letter. The elder had assumed that Church life in Russia had completely withered away—he never expected to hear from a group of believers actively living their faith. He was overjoyed.
And at the end of the letter was something else: Elder Sophrony had given me his blessing to come visit during the Nativity season.
This was the autumn of 1989. I remember thinking, Nativity? I’m going now! But nothing happened quickly. The elder had given a word—and everything had to unfold in its own time. First, I couldn’t get a visa. Then there was no money. Then I couldn’t obtain foreign currency. In the end, everything aligned so perfectly that I arrived at the monastery exactly during the Nativity celebrations—according to the new calendar, which they followed in Essex. I arrived on December 31st.
A friend from England met me at the airport and drove me to the monastery. And what I found there… I don’t know how else to describe it but this: I stepped into a wellspring of love. It overwhelmed me.
The monastery spoke three languages: English, Greek, and Russian. I could understand everything—but more importantly, I understood the spirit of the place. It was like a living model of pan-Orthodoxy. Even now, they don’t call it a monastery, but a community—because it includes both monks and nuns. People from different nations, all Orthodox, all loving one another.
Since I had arrived just before the New Year, they served a special thanksgiving prayer service at midnight. Then everyone—residents and guests alike—gathered in the refectory. I had never seen anything like it. In Russian monasteries at the time, there was nothing like this: monks sitting at the same table with guests, serving them, treating them with honor. You didn’t feel the pressure to prove yourself or earn your place through obedience. Instead, you were welcomed as the guest around whom everything turned.
After the prayer service, Father Seraphim (then still Hieronymus) brought me to meet Elder Sophrony. My mother had instructed me from home: “As soon as you see the elder—fall to your knees! Take every blessing you can!” So that’s exactly what I did. I burst into the room and threw myself at his feet.
It must have looked quite comical, because that wasn’t the custom there. He immediately helped me up, embraced me, sat me down, and began asking questions. He was so warm, so alive. It was everything I had heard—and more. When you step into a source of light, you yourself begin to shine. That’s what it felt like. He was that source off light and warmth.
Not long ago, I attended a conference dedicated to Father Sophrony. People who had never met him in person still spoke of how profoundly he had shaped their spiritual lives. But to see him face to face—that was something extraordinary.
Most people travel to elders with burning questions. But I had none. I simply passed on greetings from Russia.
After meeting the elder, I was supposed to travel around England with my friend Harry. That had always been a dream of mine—to see the country, to speak English (a language I’d studied since school). For so long, there had been no opportunity to travel abroad.
But once I arrived at the monastery, I didn’t want to leave. All I wanted was to stay, to do whatever they asked of me. I did go on a short trip for a couple of days, but I quickly changed my flight and returned to Essex. I stayed longer, living within the rhythm of monastic life—going to the services, quietly helping out. Oddly enough, even getting assigned an obedience there took effort. You had to humbly ask for it, even plead a little. That in itself was a spiritual lesson—a kind of hidden podvig (ascetic labor), learning to submit your will.
To give you a sense of the spirit of the place, let me tell you one story.
By that time, I had been living in the monastery for about a month and had grown close with several of the sisters. We had become friends. A large group of visitors was expected. One of the sisters, who managed the guesthouse, came to me looking distressed. “Katya,” she said, “would you be willing to help me clean? I’m falling behind.”
“Of course,” I said without hesitation.
It was such a simple thing—but the way she asked, so humbly, with such reluctance to burden anyone, made a deep impression on me. That was the spirit of the monastery: never demand, never assume; always ask with humility and love.
There were other moments, too, full of grace and gentleness. One that stayed with me happened during Holy Communion. In the Greek tradition, communicants tilt their heads far back so that not a drop of the Holy Gifts might fall to the ground. I approached the chalice in the way we do in Russia, and the abbot quietly said, “Please tilt your head.” I did—and thought nothing more of it.
After the service, we had the common meal. At the head of the table sat the elder, the abbot, and the guests. There’s a custom in the monastery: on the first and last day of your stay, you sit next to the abbot. It’s their way of honoring the guest.
After the meal, everyone helped clear the table. The abbot himself was the first to wash dishes. We happened to be side by side at the sink, and he turned to me and said, “Please forgive me… I feel I was too harsh with you—like a bear charging in…”
All he had done was gently remind me to tilt my head! But that moment of humility and love was unforgettable. That’s what the elder had instilled in them all: to see the image of Christ in every person, and to serve others with joy.
There were occasional tensions, of course. It was a multicultural community—Greeks, English, Germans, a Frenchwoman, a Dane. Sometimes, understandably, things got a little heated—especially in the kitchen. One sister might decide to make moussaka, while another had plans for an English apple pie. You can imagine the sparks.
When word of such tensions reached the elder, he would grieve deeply. Everyone felt it. His sorrow softened hearts, and people would do everything they could to make peace.
I was fortunate to stay in a room near the monastery library. Every day, the elder would send me small gifts—chocolates or little treats—left on my bed.
And there was another moment I will never forget. My mother told me about it later.
One day, a group of Buddhist monks arrived. No one turned them away. They stood quietly through the services. They were given a space to cook their own food and stayed a few days, praying and eating with us.
When they left, they said, “We have seen true love here.”
That moment said everything. Because ultimately, that is what we’re all searching for. And when you encounter it—when you truly feel it—it stays with you forever.
When I returned home from Essex, I felt as though I had left my heart behind in that monastery. It was hard to speak of it with anyone—no one close to me had been there yet, so there was no one who could truly understand the joy I had experienced./p>
That autumn, I went back for a second visit — and this time, I arrived on the day of Elder Sophrony’s birthday. I worked in the mosaic workshop, took part in the daily life of the monastery, and felt more deeply than ever that this was where I belonged.
That was his reply.
At one point, I gathered the courage to ask the elder about monastic life. The thought had crossed my mind — could this be my path? He looked at me kindly and said, “Study languages.”
To be part of that monastery, you needed to know not only English and Russian but Greek as well, since the community belongs to a Greek diocese. And the people there were so well-educated. Many had degrees in theology—some in other disciplines too. Most of them spoke several languages. It was a place where the life of the mind and the life of the heart were woven together in harmony.
During that second visit, I was also invited to attend one of Elder Sophrony’s talks for the monastery community. I think that was only because I had been there a little longer by then. I don’t know if everyone was allowed to attend, but I was.
And then I did something bold.
I went up to Father Sophrony and asked, “Would you allow me to record your talks and bring them back to Russia?”
He smiled and asked, “Do you think it’s worth it?”“Absolutely!” I said. “It’s essential.”
And so he agreed. I brought a few cassette recordings home with me in 1990, and they began to circulate widely. They touched many lives.
Later, my mother made her own pilgrimage to the monastery. When she returned, we finally spoke the same language. She understood.
Eventually, Father Seraphim (formerly Hieronymus, the elder’s cell-attendant) returned to Russia. Elder Sophrony had long hesitated to bless this, but Father Seraphim’s heart was burning with love for his homeland. At last, the blessing was given.
When he arrived, he was met in Moscow by Father Illarion Ermolaev—who became a dear friend to us all. They traveled across Russia together. That friendship continues to this day.
In 1992, I got married. After our wedding, my husband and I moved to the town of Kozelsk, where he had a small house. At that time, I was already expecting our first child—our daughter Vasilisa.
And so began what I now think of as the Optina season of my life. Those were years of grace and beauty—safely held under God’s protection. The relationships between people were remarkable: sincere, open, full of warmth.
I attended services at Optina Monastery regularly. Then our second child, Seraphim, was born.
Later, my life changed again. I remarried, but we remained in Optina. We had three more children there.
Were you involved in the monastery's restoration?
My first husband was an iconographer. He worked in the icon-painting workshop, helping to revive the monastery's artistic tradition. My second husband also contributed—he took part in the fresco work in the church.
As for me, I bore and raised our children. When they were little, we all went together to the monastery for services. There was a spiritual father we turned to for guidance.
As the children grew, we began attending the Church of the Holy Spirit in Kozelsk. That’s where I now sing in the church choir. We still go to Optina from time to time, especially to visit the elders.
How are your children’s relationships with faith?
Let’s just say—they’re what you might expect from children raised in a church-going Orthodox family.
Of them all, only Vasilisa is still actively involved in church life. The others... It varies.
When they were growing up, faith was simply part of our everyday life. It was organic. We went to church, received Holy Communion, and celebrated the feasts together. I never forced anyone. But as they aged, the questions began.
I still hope that something of that foundation remains. Vasilisa’s faith is the strongest.
Seraphim, on the other hand, is going through a period of serious struggle. He’s stepped away from the Church altogether. But it’s not unbelief—it’s a reaction, a kind of rebellion against the surface expressions of religion. He’s been swept up in that modern current of youth disillusioned with the Church.
It’s puzzling, really, because he grew up surrounded by sincere, faithful people. People with a clear, loving understanding of the faith. But now he throws these cliché accusations at me—talking about the Patriarch’s watch and things like that. I tell him, “Why repeat other people’s words?”
To me, it seems his soul is deeply wounded. The last message I received from him said he was overcome with a terrible sense of emptiness.
It’s a difficult time. I can see that the children are wandering, searching. They’re wrestling with something—looking for a path. But in the end, there is no other path.
Pasha and Kolya, the twins, haven’t drifted too far. But they’re always questioning God. They tease me sometimes:
“Oh, another church holiday? So we’re not allowed to play computer games again?”
Sure, it’s not always easy. I come home from church and find Dotablaring in the background, dominating the whole house. I don’t always have the patience I wish I had. But they know how I feel.
Our youngest, Sasha, is still a mystery to me—a closed book. She hasn’t opened up about faith. But maybe, in a way, she has the simplest relationship with it.
I suppose I still haven’t fully let them go in this regard. I don’t know how to. Faith is the only thing I know that is real and lasting. But no matter what kind of family a child grows up in, he or she still has to walk that path for themselves.
Where do you find inspiration?
First and foremost—in church. I sing on thekleros, and prayer is what sustains me. That is my wellspring.
And perhaps... in memories, too. Yes. Because I’ve seen these things with my own eyes. I’ve seen the truth. I don’t need any other proof. What I saw was enough.
There are times when faith falters. That happens. But the spiritual fathers I’ve met—Father Vasily, Father John (Krestiankin), Father Adrian, Elder Sophrony, the elders of Pechory, the Optina fathers—were all a gift from God.
hat’s why it pains me so deeply when people start attacking the Church. When all you hear is that everything is corrupt, everything is hopeless. I want to shout: “No! There is so much good—so many good people!”
God let me see that for myself.
Recently, my son Kolya said to me, “When I think of you, I remember my little mama, always on her way to church.”
Of course, my life has not been without hardship. I’ve had many different experiences. But I know now—there is no other way.
Still, I can’t always find the words. I’m not a preacher.
If someone were to stop me and ask, “Tell me—what exactly do you believe?”—I don’t think I could explain it. I would probably stumble, go silent.
Maybe that’s why we have martyrs. They didn’t argue or explain. They simply said: I believe.And that was enough.
I don’t know…
But one thing I do know is this:
I long to meet Christ.
Interview byYulia Goyko
Photographs byVasilisa Zaitseva
