The Birth of My Younger Child, A Vision of Jesus, and a Glimpse into the Future (Gnosis, or the Heart of an Angel. Part one. Chapters 10–11)
Dubrovitsy Church
I recall being 16 and visiting my Russian grandparents in Podolsk. During that trip, my mother introduced me to a magnificent church nestled in the village of Dubrovitsy, part of the Galitsyn family estate. This serene and luminous spot on Earth cradles a church constructed in a distinctive style, featuring a golden crown atop its grey, ornately carved facade. Adorned with stunning ornaments and Gothic statues, the church harmonizes with the architectural traditions of Russian temples.
Yet, beyond its external allure, I found myself captivated by the interior frescoes, particularly those of the Archangels. I remember my mother explained to me: “Orthodoxy depicts saints in two distinct manners: the realistic and the non-realistic. Realistic icons show saints with a lifelike presence, painted by adhering to traditional rules. The non-realistic icons, however, are symbolically rendered, with a more two-dimensional appearance, crafted according to a specific canon. This approach aims to draw the viewer’s focus away from the physical portrayal of the saint to their spiritual essence.”
The fresco that captured my gaze was not just rendered with a master’s realism, but also with exceptional artistry. I stood there transfixed, my attention held by the image of Michael, where his visual representation and spiritual significance coalesced beautifully.
2006: The Birth of My Younger Child, A Vision of Jesus, and a Glimpse into the Future
During my second pregnancy, I faced numerous health issues that left me feeling utterly drained. The pain in my kidney was so severe that I found it impossible to stay still. It became clear that I was entering labor when the pain peaked every ten minutes. Upon arrival at the maternity ward, I experienced intense pain but struggled to maintain composure without crying out or making a fuss. Amidst this, a stranger, who seemed to be a nurse, came to sit beside me and held my hand as the contractions grew more fierce. My grip on her hand tightened with each wave of pain, and I found myself apologizing for causing her any trouble. Her presence was a source of immense comfort; it felt as though she absorbed some of my suffering, lightening my pain. I still remember her weary face, seemingly numb from seeing so much pain. While her name remains unknown to me, my heart swells with gratitude for her to this very day.
The delivery itself was arduous, as my baby was particularly large. The pain escalated to a level that was simply insufferable. In response, my uncle, who was a chief gynecologist, sympathized with my plight and administered a shot of painkillers. Contrary to expectations, the medication didn’t lessen my pain. Instead, it made me groggy, causing me to drift off to sleep between contractions. When a contraction would strike, I would jolt awake in excruciating pain, perceiving a blurred line between dream and reality, as though I existed in both realms at once.
During the pregnancy, something went wrong, prompting my uncle to urgently place a monitoring device on my stomach to check the baby’s heartbeat. He abruptly stood, shouting for adrenaline, “The baby’s heart has stopped, quick, adrenaline!” Someone hurried off, leaving me in a state of anxious anticipation for the doctors to return. In those tense moments, I fervently prayed for my child, reciting a prayer to Jesus with each sighting of him. It wasn’t shocking to me when he appeared by my side; in a dream-like state of exhaustion, I confessed to him:
- I have no more strength.
His serene response was:
- There is always strength.
Reflecting on those words now, I grasp their profound significance beyond what I initially understood. I implored Jesus for help in saving my child, and as the doctors rushed back in, my uncle placed the stethoscope to listen again and finally let out a relieved sigh:
- It’s beating!
I continued to pray relentlessly until my son was born. Never before had I engaged in prayer with such intensity. The painkillers lulled me into sleep every couple of minutes, but each prayer seemed to pull me back to consciousness. In my dreams, I visualized prayer as a fiery energy, spiraling out in lines from around me toward a destination beyond my knowing. The room seemed to swirl with different hues. This vivid experience conveyed an incredible sense of power and beauty, teaching me the ways in which human pain can amplify spiritual energies. Prayer during that ordeal assumed a new, incandescent form.
My baby arrived, distinguished by his plump cheeks and clenched fists. I caught only a fleeting glimpse before he was taken away. Unlike after my first childbirth, they did not place him on my chest. Instead, my uncle entered with a troubled look and instructed me to rest, administering a sedative. I drifted off without needing any further encouragement, quickly succumbing to a deep sleep.
I awoke at five in the morning to the unsettling silence of an empty cradle where my baby should have been. Reluctant to worry my family further, I still needed to know where my baby was. The nurse’s cryptic response to my inquiry only intensified my concern: “He’s stable.” What did that imply? As the nurses departed, snippets of their conversation drifted to me:
- I think her child might have died, and she’s unaware.
Panic threatened to set in, but asking my own heart, I received a reassuring feeling; it assured me that my child was alive.This inner conviction was so potent that it nearly dissolved all my anxiety. Yet, I had to wait until morning for confirmation. Overcome by fatigue, sleep claimed me once more.
In my dream, I found myself looking into a bowl brimming with water, almond petals floating atop. Suddenly, the petals withered and vanished, replaced by vibrant evergreen branches — a symbol, it seemed, of good news: the ephemeral had given way to the enduring. The branches too disappeared, and the water stilled, transforming into a reflective surface that revealed the future. I saw my son, grown and attending the same kindergarten as my eldest daughter, under Aunt Mzia’s care. I envisioned Aunt Mzia calling, inviting me to accompany her to the costume rental for the children’s carnival.
- Your boy must be a prince, — she exclaimed as we got into the car. In my dream, I was clad in a green jacket, and all seemed well — I had landed a new job. Waking from the dream, I was enveloped in a profound sense of tranquility, confident that everything would turn out fine.
My son required surgery for a hernia in his diaphragm. It developed during birth, causing his intestines to displace, which subsequently shifted his lung and heart slightly to the right. This complication likely occurred when his heart ceased and then miraculously restarted during delivery. Our battle for his life was intense as both his lungs and kidneys were not functioning properly. As he was transferred from the maternity ward, a poignant phrase accompanied him:
- Consider him a gift from God!
We named our son “ — — — “, though I can’t recall whether it was my idea or my husband’s. Given the uncertainties surrounding his health, we baptized him quickly in the maternity ward. The selection of his godparents was made in haste as well, and I don’t remember who suggested them.
Upon bringing him home, he bore scars like a soldier returning from battle. Yet, he appeared pain-free and offered me smiles that reached his eyes.
Four years on, he attended Aunt Mzia’s kindergarten. True to my dream, Mzia called, requesting a ride to the costume rental shop. There, I started looking for a beast costume since he was to play the role of the beast in a school play. To my surprise, Aunt Mzia presented both a monster mask and a prince’s costume.
- I thought my son was to be a beast? — I questioned.
- He is a beast, but he’s also an enchanted prince! — Mzia responded with a smile.
