Читать книгу Дорога в Эммаус - Александр Веселков - Страница 6

More than 10 years have gone by since that day. Brother Roger has passed away. And Taizé lives on, as it always has; it blossoms by virtue of all its contributions to humanity. And as before the flow of young and, in fact, older people coming to Taize hasn’t declined, but instead has grown even bigger. One of my main memories of Brother Roger is to do with a case of miraculous connection. Once, after an evening prayer I saw Brother Roger standing away from the brothers’ praying spot, a little closer to the right, about 7–8 meters from me. He was talking to someone but I couldn’t hear what were they talking about. Suddenly, Brother Roger smiled, and… a feeling of grace (if I’m not mistaken) came to me after a few seconds, followed by a joyful feeling of love running through me. This feeling never lasts (Diveevo was an exception). The conversation seemed to be over – that gracious feeling had slowly faded away leaving me uplifted and with a joyful smile on my face. This was a unique occurrence, which is why I admire this memory so much and always remember it with trepidation. I had never felt anything like it when I saw him before. Perhaps the evening chant created a favourable atmosphere.

And here we are in Taizé again. I had planned to visit Brother Roger’s grave twice and both times I couldn’t due to unforeseen circumstances. With God’s help, we were invited to the Orthodox mass in the Romanesque church. The mass was performed by a Romanian priest, there were also several Taize brothers as well as a few people of different denominations. After the mass, I started looking for Brother Roger’s grave among the few that were there. Driven by some kind of foolish worldly logic I tried to find it among majestic monuments made of expensive marble and other massive headstones. However, there was no need to look for it, I was standing by one of the most modest graves I could imagine, and it turned out to be his. It was next to a similar modest grave of a Brother who passed away before him. The only decoration it had was a bunch of fresh flowers. As soon as I read the name, Frére Roger, tears suddenly gushed out of my eyes. I tried to hold them back – after all, there were people nearby – but I couldn’t. Slowly a wave of goodness and love, the one I felt in Diveevo and during my last miraculous meeting with Brother Roger gently took over me and stopped the torrent of tears. Five minutes later for some reason I willed myself to walk away from the cemetery; I still felt a bit uplifted, my eyes were wet and my heart was full of the most tender, gentle love.

A few days after the same mass it all happened again – grace-filled (I hope) tears and a delightful feeling of love.

Despite the number of times I tried to recreate this experience by visiting Brother Roger’s grave, I couldn’t.