In these recent days (editor’s note: July 19 / August 1, 1903, New Style), the Church and the faithful of Orthodox Russia—led by the Imperial Family—have reverently celebrated a long-awaited spiritual triumph: the uncovering of the holy relics of the Venerable Seraphim, the Wonderworker of Sarov. Countless pilgrims from the farthest corners of the land continue to travel along the well-trodden path, coming to venerate the sacred relics of God’s beloved servant, trusting in the powerful prayers of this intercessor, now glorified by the Church.
Talk of this radiant event involuntarily brings to mind scenes from the distant days of my childhood. The past seems to come alive before me, and in my imagination there stands vividly the figure of that ascetic of the Murom forests, whom I was blessed with the great joy of seeing with my own eyes—nearly three-quarters of a century ago.
I can no longer recall, the years having so distanced those days, what exactly prompted my father and mother to leave their home in Nizhny Novgorod and set out for the Murom forests—(editor’s note: on a pilgrimage to Sarov Monastery, where Father Seraphim laboured in asceticism)—bringing along our entire, numerous household—from the eldest children to the babe at the breast, and, as was then said, ‘the whole house’.
Most of the pilgrims travelled both on foot and by cart to fulfil a vow once made—often during some difficult or desperate moment in their lives.
…As for the general appearance of the Sarov Monastery upon our arrival, I cannot clearly recall it. Most likely, it was already nearing evening, and we children had dozed off, curled up on the laps of our elders.
When we entered the long, low, vaulted monastery refectory, a slight shiver passed through us—not merely from the damp chill of the stone building, but perhaps also from a kind of awe. In the centre of the refectory, a monk stood behind a lectern, reading aloud from the Lives of the Saints. Beneath the dim arches, only the steady, measured voice of the reader could be heard, and the quiet shuffle of slippers on the stone floor as monastic attendants moved about, carrying food in wooden bowls and on wooden trays.
That night, we children were not woken for Matins and arrived only in time for the Divine Liturgy. Father Seraphim was not present at the service, and the people streamed directly from the church toward the wing where the elder’s hermitage was located.
Long we walked under the vaulted ceilings of corridors that, to us children, seemed endless and shadowed. A monk with a candle went before us. “Here,” he said at last, and unfastening a key from his belt, he unlocked the iron lock hanging on a low, narrow door set deep into the thick stone wall.
Bending toward the door, the old man offered the customary monastic greeting: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us.” But the expected reply—“Amen,” signalling welcome—did not follow.
“Try yourselves—perhaps he will answer one of you,” the elderly guide said, turning to the pilgrims. My father repeated the greeting, as did others—men, women, even the children joined in.
But from behind the closed door came no answer.
“Seems the elder is not in his cell,” said the monk. “We should go check under his window. Perhaps he slipped out when he heard the commotion of your company in the yard.”
We left the corridor and followed a shorter path. Rounding the corner of the building, we came out onto a small clearing, directly beneath Father Seraphim’s window. There, between two ancient graves, we saw clear footprints—feet shod in worn peasant bast shoes.
“He’s fled,” murmured the grey-haired monk with concern, turning the now-useless key awkwardly in his hands.
The Father Abbot gave his blessing for us, the pilgrims, to seek out Father Seraphim in the woods. “He cannot have gone far,” he reassured us. “He has suffered much in his lifetime—you’ll see for yourselves. One arm here, one leg there, and a hump upon his shoulder. Whether a bear mangled him… or men beat him… he will not say—he is as silent as a child. Still, it’s unlikely you’ll find him in the forest. He’ll hide in the thickets, lie down among the grass. But perhaps he’ll respond to the voices of children. Take as many of the little ones as you can—and be sure they go ahead. Let them run out front!” the Abbot shouted after the already advancing crowd.
It was a delight at first—to run freely, completely unsupervised, over the soft, velvety layer of loose sand. We, city children, had to stop now and again to shake out the fine white grains from our dainty, cutwork slippers—so fashionable at the time. The barefoot village children called out to us teasingly as they ran past: “Why not take your shoes off? It’s easier that way!”
The forest thickened. The trees grew taller and denser. The cool dampness and the hush of the woods closed in around us, along with the pungent, unfamiliar scent of pine resin. Beneath the lofty canopy of towering firs, it grew darker still. A sense of unease crept over us—both the town children and the country ones. Some of us wanted to cry.
At last, a sunbeam pierced the shadows, glimmering through the needles. We brightened at once, ran toward the light glinting in the distance—and soon burst, one after another, into a clearing bathed
And there we saw him.
Bent nearly to the ground near the roots of a solitary fir tree, a short, thin old man was swiftly cutting tall grass with a sickle. The blade flashed brightly in the sunlight.
Hearing our rustling in the trees, the Elder straightened quickly and turned an ear toward the monastery. Then, like a startled hare, he sprang toward the thicket. But he did not get far—breathless, he glanced back, then slipped quietly into the dense grass of the uncut patch and vanished from view.
Only then did we remember our parents’ instructions—and with a burst of urgency, we cried out in chorus, nearly twenty voices strong: “Father Seraphim! Father Seraphim!”
And just as the monastery pilgrims had hoped, the sound of children’s voices stirred him. Unable to remain hidden, Father Seraphim’s head emerged from behind the tall forest grass. Pressing a finger to his lips, he looked at us with a gentle, pleading gaze—as if to ask us not to give him away, for already the steps of the older pilgrims could be heard drawing near.
His yellowish hair, damp with the sweat of labour, lay in soft strands across his high brow. His face, bitten by forest midges, was speckled with tiny, dried drops of blood caught in the folds of his wrinkles. His appearance was rough and unkempt—yet, when he made a narrow path through the grass and, lowering himself onto it, beckoned us near, our little Liza was the first to run to him, throwing her arms around his neck and nestling her face against his shoulder, rough though it was with sackcloth.
“Treasures, treasures,” he whispered, almost inaudibly, as he drew each of us in turn to his frail breast.
While we were still embracing the elder, a boy from among us—a young village shepherd named Semyon—darted away at full speed toward the monastery, calling out loudly as he ran: “Here! Over here! It’s Father Seraphim! This way!”
We were stricken with shame. Our joyful cries and our warm embraces now seemed to us a kind of betrayal. And we were even more ashamed when two large, breathless figures—whether men or women I cannot now recall—came rushing in, took the elder gently by the elbows, and began to lead him toward the crowd that was already spilling from the forest edge.
Coming to our senses, we rushed after Father Seraphim. Having slipped ahead of his unexpected escorts, he now walked alone, limping slightly, toward his little hut by the stream.
When he reached it, he turned toward the waiting pilgrims. There were many of them.
“I have nothing to offer you here, my dear ones,” he said in a soft, flustered voice—like a humble householder caught unprepared in the middle of a workday. Then, as though remembering something, he brightened: “But perhaps the little ones may enjoy a treat!”
Turning to our brother—the eldest among us children—he said, “Over there are my onion beds. See them? Gather all the children and cut them some onions. Feed them, my treasures—feed them well. And give them water to drink from the stream.”
Off we ran, skipping and laughing, and crouched together between the rows of onion stalks. Of course, no one actually ate the onions—we were far too curious to take our eyes off the old man who had just so tenderly pressed us to his heart.
Receiving his blessing, the rest of the pilgrims had now formed a respectful semicircle, standing silently at a distance and gazing upon the one they had come so far to see.
Many of the faces there were marked with grief; most of the peasant women wore white headscarves as signs of mourning. One of them, the daughter of our old nanny who had recently died of cholera, stood quietly weeping, her face hidden behind her apron.
“Plague then… cholera now…” murmured the elder slowly, as though recalling something from long ago.
Then he spoke aloud, his voice clear: “Look there—those children will cut the onions, and above the earth not a trace of them will remain… But they will rise again. They will grow back—stronger and better than before.”
“And so it is with our departed loved ones,” he continued. “Whether taken by plague, or by cholera… they too shall rise. They shall rise again. They shall rise again—all of them, every one.”
He was not speaking to pagans unaware of the promise of resurrection. All who stood there had known from childhood of “the life of the age to come.” They had exchanged the Easter greeting, “Christ is Risen!” since their earliest years. And yet this triple proclamation—“They shall rise again. They shall rise again. All of them…”—uttered in that shadowy forest clearing by one who had spoken so few words in life, rang out like a solemn oath, a pledge of something certain and near at hand.
Standing before the doorway of his humble woodland hut—so narrow one could neither lie down nor stand upright within it—the elder quietly made the sign of the Cross, continuing his unceasing prayer… The people did not disturb him. Neither heat nor cold, neither day nor night, neither axe nor sickle, nor the toils of labour had ever interrupted his continual communion with God.
And the people prayed as well.
Over the silent clearing, it was as though a gentle angel had passed.
Standing slightly apart from the other pilgrims, at the very front, was a figure well known to us all: Madame Zorina—a formidable and imperious woman, a distant relative of my father. Behind her clustered a whole retinue of female attendants, all dressed in black with white kerchiefs upon their heads, just as she was. The old lady was being supported on either side by two women—whether lay sisters or singers from the convent choir, I cannot say—both wearing pointed velvet caps.
Evidently finding the forest stillness too solemn for her taste, the old gentlewoman muttered toward her entourage, “We’ve time enough to pray at home. I came here to speak my mind, and speak it I shall.”
And, nudging her companions aside, she stepped forward with them into the centre of the semicircle.
“Father Seraphim! Father Seraphim!” she called out in a loud, insistent voice. “What is your advice to me? I am the General’s widow, Zorina. I’ve been a widow for thirty years now. Fifteen of those I’ve lived—perhaps you’ve heard—at the monastery, along with all these of mine. During all that time, I’ve fasted on Wednesdays and Fridays, and now I’ve taken it into my head to fast on Mondays too. What say you to that, Father Seraphim? What do you advise?”
Had a sudden flock of crows descended on us, cawing harshly overhead, they would scarcely have startled us more than this shrill and officious inquiry. It shattered the gentle stillness of the clearing like a stone cast into still waters.
Father Seraphim blinked kindly and somewhat bemusedly at her with his bright, gentle eyes.
“I’m not quite sure I understood you,” he said slowly. Then, after a brief pause, he added: “If you’re asking about food, then I’ll tell you this—sometimes, when you begin to pray, you may forget to eat. Well then, don’t eat! Don’t eat for a day, or two even… But when hunger comes, when your strength begins to wane—then have a little something. That’s all.”
A smile of tender amusement passed over the faces of those standing nearby. The elder’s reply—so wise, so simple, so seasoned by hardship—left no room for argument.
Madame Zorina, however, looking somewhat discomfited, gave a little shuffle backwards. With a quick motion, she turned and melted back into the crowd, her retinue close at her heels.
The sun had grown hot, and the pilgrims—having stood long in the clearing—began to grow faint. Their bodies, wearied by the journey, began to assert themselves, calling for food, for rest.
Father Seraphim beckoned to one of the monks—Brother Prokudin—and said gently, “Tell them, please… tell them all to drink from the spring over there. The water is good.”
“And tomorrow,” he added with quiet assurance, “I shall be at the monastery. Without fail—I shall be there.”
The people moved gratefully toward the spring. But when they had quenched their thirst and turned to look again, Father Seraphim was no longer standing on the rise before his little hut—the hut so narrow and bare that one could neither lie down nor stand upright inside it.
Only the soft whisper of the sickle could be heard in the distance, cutting through the dry forest grass.
Our own family made the return journey to the monastery alone, adjusting our pace to match the slow, weary steps of our grandmother—my father’s mother. Crowds of pilgrims were already streaming through the monastery gates, but we lingered still, walking quietly through the broad, shaded forest path. In the distance, the onion domes of the monastery cathedral shimmered like a vision beyond the trees.
Little Liza—my younger sister, the one whom Father Seraphim had held so tenderly to his breast and called “treasure”—clung tightly to my hand. As we stepped out of the forest shadows and into the light, she gave my hand a squeeze, looked up into my face, and said thoughtfully:
“Father Seraphim only looks like an old man. But really, he’s just like us—a little child, like you and me. Isn’t that right, Nadya?”
Through all the years that followed—seventy years and more—I encountered many eyes: wise eyes, kind eyes, eyes full of deep affection. But never again did I see eyes so radiant with both childlike innocence and elderlike beauty as those that looked upon us that morning from behind the tall stalks of forest grass. In them shone an entire revelation of love.
As for the smile that lit that furrowed, careworn face—it could only be likened to the smile of a sleeping newborn, whom the old nannies say is still being amused in dreams by his angelic companions.
To this day, I remember the stacks of kindling wood and heaps of freshly cut hay I saw as a child on that forest clearing—amidst the towering pines that seemed to stand guard over the labours of that frail-bodied, but divinely strengthened hermit.
Early the next morning, just as he had promised, Father Seraphim appeared at the monastery.
He greeted us pilgrims as a gracious host would welcome dear guests, standing in the open doorway of his inner cell. Gone was every trace of his wilderness labours. His yellowed-grey hair was now neatly combed, and there was no sign of blood upon his deeply lined face from the bites of forest insects. A fresh, white linen shirt had replaced his worn-out smock. His entire appearance seemed to reflect the very words of the Gospel: “But thou, when thou fastest, anoint thy head and wash thy face…”
His face radiated joy. The cell was filled with sacks—each one brimming with small dried prosphora loaves. Only the space before the icons was left clear so that he might kneel there in prayer. Beside the elder stood an open sack, from which he was drawing handfuls of dried bread to give to each pilgrim who approached.
“Eat, eat, my dears,” he said, beaming. “See how great the plenty we have here!”
And so, one after another, we stepped forward to receive his blessing and a portion of the holy bread, each of us filled with awe. When the last of us had been blessed and received a handful, the elder stepped back, made a deep bow to both sides, and said with great humility:
“Forgive me, fathers and brethren, if I have sinned against you in word, deed, or thought.”
Then, straightening up, he traced over us all the great sign of the priestly Cross and added solemnly:
“May the Lord forgive and have mercy on you all.”
He was preparing that evening to go to confession, as was the custom for all the monks.
Thus ended our second meeting with the venerable elder. I no longer remember how we spent the remainder of that day, but the memory of what happened the next—the third and final day of our stay in Sarov—remains vivid and bright in my heart.
Having confessed the evening before, as I mentioned, Father Seraphim served the Divine Liturgy the next day, clothed in his priestly vestments. The chapel was small, and only a few pilgrims could fit inside for the service.
Remembering those of us left outside, the venerable elder sent a novice to tell us that he would come out to us after the Liturgy with the Cross.
So we all gathered—rich and poor alike—crowded together at the entrance of the church porch. And when he finally appeared in the doorway, all eyes turned toward him.
This time, he was clad in full monastic vesture, with the epitrachelion of a serving priest. His high brow and all the features of his ascetic face were aglow with the joy of one who had worthily partaken of the Holy Body and Blood of Christ. His large blue eyes shone with the light of divine understanding. Though he limped and bore a hump upon his shoulder, as he descended the church steps with slow, deliberate steps, there was in his bearing a noble beauty—dignified and radiant.
Standing at the front of our group was a young German student named Knirim, who had just arrived from Dorpat. Tall and handsome, he looked on with curiosity at what to him seemed a strange Russian ceremony.
The elder noticed him at once and extended the Cross to him first. Unfamiliar with the Orthodox practice, the student reached out and grasped the Cross with his gloved hand.
“The glove…” Father Seraphim said gently, with a note of quiet reproof.
The young man, embarrassed, withdrew his hand, clearly unsure of what he had done wrong. The elder then stepped back two paces and addressed him directly:
“Do you know what the Cross is?” he asked. “Do you understand the meaning of the Cross of the Lord?”
And from his lips, inspired by the Spirit, there flowed a stream of luminous speech—measured, clear, and filled with power. It was a sermon, given without preparation, yet spoken as one having authority.
Even if my memory were strong enough to recall his exact words after all these years, I could not record them here—for I was but a child then, no more than nine years old. At that age, I could not fully grasp the depth of his teaching.
But what a child could see, hear, and feel has never left me through the long decades of my life.
I shall never forget the clarity of his gaze—that gaze now illumined by divine wisdom. Nor the sudden transfiguration of the face that only the day before had laboured in the woods. I remember the sound of his voice as it rang out over the small gathering of pilgrims, tender yet firm, with the unmistakable tone of one who had been sent by God.
I remember the shine of compassion in Brother Prokudin’s eyes, the meek, thirsting expression on the face of my elderly grandmother as she stood before the elder like “parched land before the rain.” I remember the youthful fervour that glowed in the eyes of my younger uncle. Father Seraphim noticed him too, and gently leaned toward him:
“Do you have money?” he asked.
My uncle began to reach for his wallet, but the elder held up his hand with a soft motion: “No, not now,” he said. “Give always—and everywhere.”
And with those words, he offered the Cross to him first.
My late uncle did not, like the rich young man in Scripture, “go away sorrowful.”
Soon afterward, we began our return journey. We had lingered too long, and by the time we set out, it was already dusk. We were unable to reach the edge of the forest before dark. Many of the walking pilgrims—among them the elderly, the infirm, and children—had already gone ahead. Around the monastery yard, there was the clatter of carts departing with the more well-off pilgrims.
…It was the last time I ever saw the Venerable Father Seraphim. Within a year—perhaps in 1833—the monks found him in his cell, reposed upon his knees in prayer.
Yet in our family, the memory of that radiant man of God lived on, endlessly discussed and cherished. He was the gentle apostle of toil, the one whose very presence was a sermon of love and humility—and who is now glorified by the Church as a Wonderworker.
Source: Remembering with Love: Venerable Seraphim, Sarov, Diveyevo Through the Eyes of Pilgrims of the XIX-XXI Centuries / Compiled by N. Yu. Butina. – Moscow: Orthodox St. Tikhon’s University for the Humanities, 2007. – 500 p. ISBN 97857429-0137-2
