It was possible to get to Borovitskaya Square from 10 am. Only the most spiritually attached to the holiday gathered, read the akathist to the holy prince in pairs, sang softly, took places near the barriers, on which they could lean. Little by little we got to know each other, in a low voice we told something of the history of our soul and family.
My neighbor on the right, Alevtina, is 82 years old, but she, like most Muscovites, is strong and graced with that urban grace of appearance, thought and speech, which distinguishes people of good birth from a big city.
She was baptized at age 50, but she says it was like someone was guiding her her entire life, helping her make the right decisions. She reproaches herself for something, she rejoices at something. She may feel a little lonely and want to talk. Her mood is kind and bright, listening to her is a pleasure.
The neighbor on the left, Lyubov, has lived in Moscow for 30 years, but comes from Makeevka. He speaks tenderly of his native Donbass suburb, boasts of the intercession of St. Elias of Makeevsky, extended over him. He then tells her that his beloved friend lives in Donetsk, and not just anywhere, but in the Petrovsky district. “What calm and courage they have there, you would know! And we are only here: oh, rain again.” We regret the despondency of Moscow from the rain, and together we remember that in the morning the rain stood like a wall, both on Lyuba on Baumanskaya and on me on Vykhino. And such a wall that we doubted whether the procession and prayer service would take place on Borovitskaya Square. But here it is 10.45 and the calm sun is looking at us and we want to put on sunglasses. It still falls with a special shine on the huge dome of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, marking the day with intimate festive joy.
– No, the Day of the Baptism of Rus’ must rain, – Alevtina shares her personal signs. If it rains, then our prayers will be fulfilled.
But now, from afar, a low bell ringing is heard, and a religious procession begins to emerge from the Borovitskaya tower of the Kremlin. In front are the priests dressed in white, then the nuns in strict black, and finally the priests in golden robes. It looks solemn and beautiful. The prayer begins.
People accept everything: the professional scampering of those who guard the patriarch, a happy-go-lucky shepherd boy on a leash, happily climbing the stairs. “Maybe the president will come, he loves dogs?” – says an old woman. “Yes, this is a dog trained to search for explosives”, the most informed men are slowly changing the interpretation of what is happening. We all like riot police and security guards, we met a long time ago and we accept each other. And of course the volunteers.
At the prayer service we listen to the Gospel, sing joyfully together with the skillful choir, listen to the word of the patriarch.
When the prayer service ends and the patriarch leaves, we form a bunch of people who want to venerate a particle of the relics of Saint Peter. Prince Vladimir.
Our corner of this crowd was unlucky, they changed the entrance place several times and we were the last to go through. Someone rejoiced: so we are ascetics, albeit small: it was not easy to stand in the pouring rain after the prayer service in cramped, stuffy spaces under umbrellas. Someone complained: it is not necessary to put up with logistical errors and absurd queue management. But from time to time a spark of concern for others passed through everyone. Drinking water was handed out, then someone was let through.
And here we are on the stairs – we climb to the base of the monument and the relics lying near it. Priests and order were added along the way. In these last moments, I want to tear my thoughts from everything and ask, ask, ask the intercessor-prince who baptized us. About what’s in the heart. From the weakness of the mother to the fate of all our long-suffering principality.
