I remember as a young girl, walking into the kitchen one morning to find my great-grandmother immersed in reading something aloud. On the windowsill stood an icon with inscriptions in unfamiliar letters. I asked, "Grandma, why is it written not in Russian?" She replied, "It's Church Slavonic. It's used for liturgical texts, a beautiful ancient language. Do you want me to teach you to read it?"

"Grandma! Why would I need your ancient language?" I laughed. "No one speaks it. It will never be useful to me."

At that time, my father also started embracing his faith, going on pilgrimages, and taking me along. I vividly recall a visit to Diveevo, where I literally ran away to avoid plunging into the cold springs. Once, during a service, I impulsively ran out onto the street. My father and grandmother followed me. I exclaimed, "I don't want this anymore! Enough!" I remember their concerned conversation. My father said, "Maybe it's too early for her..."

Sometime later, my father gave me books and asked, "Promise me you'll read them before you turn 13!" I nodded and said, "Yes, Dad, I will." Naturally, I forgot about the books the same day, placing them far away on a shelf with other children's literature.

There was another religious person in my family—my grandmother, Galia. She regularly slipped me recipes from a health magazine or prayer texts from the Orthodox calendar. I particularly remember the prayer "before the beginning of any study," which she gave me before exams. I aced them all, but I never admitted to my grandmother that I had recited that prayer.

I continued pretending that none of it interested me. Perhaps it was awkward for me to admit that I believed. It wasn't fashionable, or so I thought.

Years passed. My father was no more. Both my great-grandmother and grandmother Galia had left. I missed them. Then, friends invited me to accompany them to Diveevo, where I had been with my father. I went.

We stayed in a hermitage, prayed, talked, and discussed the Gospels. I didn't know them. I felt like an outsider. Still, I tried not to stand out. The daily schedule indicated that they read the evening prayers before bed. Out of curiosity, I went to see what that involved. One of the sisters suggested we take turns passing the book to each other. Reading was never a problem for me, and my voice seemed okay.

However, when the book came into my hands, something unimaginable and inexplicable happened. Seeing Church Slavonic written in Russian letters, I started trembling, stuttering, and then, for a moment, lost the ability to speak...

It wasn't just Church Slavonic; I couldn't speak a word in Russian.

At that moment, I vividly remembered my grandmother's gentle gaze, her voice, and the day she wanted to teach me to read, but I just laughed at her.

Back from Diveevo, I rushed to my childhood home. I found the books my father had given me! I hadn't read them by the age of 13. In fact, I only picked them up for the first time.

And I just burst into tears... It was the Gospel in a children's adaptation, a book for preparing for confession, and the life of St. Photini—my saint...

I cried because I never fulfilled my promise and because now I desperately needed to learn Church Slavonic, understand church life, and study the Gospels. All this knowledge had been near me for many years. Beloved ones had offered me everything my soul needed. But I realized it too late, when there were no more relatives around to tell me about God.