Mrs. Fotini and the Uncreated Light (True story)

 Ten years ago, twelve years ago, I met a Soul. A Holy Soul. We will use a name to keep the personal details private. Her name is Fotini... Or at least, that's what I call her.

Mrs. Fotini came with her family to my mother's house, where I was staying at the time because I didn't have a home, and they had tidied up the place—my mother was kind enough to do so. — she had made a small chapel with our icons, our oil lamp, our candles, our holy relics, and we had a small sofa that could fit me.

We would open it up and I would sleep there at night, and in the morning we would fold it up and decorate it, and it was like a small sacristy, where I could listen to people - someone's reasoning, or someone could advise me or hear an opinion, somewhat privately.

So one afternoon this couple came, four people, and they brought Mrs. Fotini with them. She was sixty-three, sixty-four years old. A small woman but with a very bright face. And she says to me: "Father, I heard that you are from Sinai. Something very serious is happening to me, and I came to ask you, because I am afraid that I cannot tell everyone what is happening to me." I said, "Gladly, Mrs. Fotini. Come in."

So we sat down in the small reception room and she began to tell me that she was born somewhere in Central Greece and was orphaned at the age of seven.

Unfortunately, she fell into the hands of greedy uncles who divided up her property overnight, usurped it, and mistreated her.

This poor girl, small and sensitive, became attached to her neighbor, the priest's wife, who was also a widow and had three daughters. Fortunately, her eldest daughter had managed to go to the Academy to become a teacher, and so they were able to make a living. But because they were housewives, the priest's wife and the other girls had learned, and were teaching Fotini, to embroider dowries for rich girls—back then there were no machines and no ready-made clothes. So they embroidered monograms on sheets, pillowcases, towels, and did other embroidery work. And they earned their living.

Next to the priest's wife, who sat there all day, Fotini listened to her pray from the age of seven. But the priest's wife, in the Psalms she recited, also said something else:

"Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Lord. Let us thank the Lord."

She heard her saying it over and over again, and like a little girl, Mrs. Fotini asked her: "Auntie priest's wife, why do you keep saying thank you? Why do you say, Thank you, Lord?" She said: "What else can I say, my child? God has given us so many blessings and He is good to us, and through God's grace we know Him. All I can say to Him is thank you. I can ask for nothing else."

So, Fotini grew up and embraced this blessing. As if she knew no other blessing and as if she knew no other prayer, whatever happened to her, she would say, "Thank you, Lord." Until she was seventeen, she slept at her aunt and uncle's house and left early in the morning to go to the priest's wife, who gave her some pocket money so that she would not burden her aunt and uncle with her expenses.

At the age of seventeen, she went on a trip to a monastery with the priest's wife and the parish to a women's monastery in northern Greece, and the poor girl wanted to become a nun. She liked this life so much that she earnestly asked to become a nun. However, she needed her parents' permission, as she was a minor.

And so, upon her return, she was confronted with an unpleasant situation: her uncles, in order to get rid of her, had found her a husband, who of course would not be a relative since he did not ask for a dowry. So, within a year, they hurriedly married her off. But the poor girl faced the problem that he owned a coffee shop and, unfortunately, was learning to drink and was drinking and using other substances there at the coffee shop, and things got difficult.

However, she gave birth and bore him three children: a boy, Fani, and two girls. I don't remember their names to tell you. But I remember that she had three children. And the poor woman tried to raise them with the Lord's guidance.

But whenever he came back from the cafe drunk, or one of the children was sick or whining, he would try to scold and beat them, and the poor woman would put herself in front and take the beating herself. So, in addition to the insults she received, she also took the beating, and she also took the beating for the child. And the poor woman always said, "Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Lord. We thank the Lord." She never complained.

In the four or five years of her marriage, because her husband's business was not going well, his cousins said to him: "Come to us in the capital of the prefecture so we can find a cafe and combine our livelihoods with yours to make a big cafe." And that's what happened.

 

They found a small house on the edge of the village, which had a well and a small sheepfold, and they were able to survive, both living in poverty. They expanded the coffee shop, but gradually it became a café, the café became a coffee bar, and slowly it became a nightclub...

With slot machines and various games of chance. Anestis came home late, he no longer liked Mrs. Fotini, he shouted at her, called her "mold," called her "plague," called her "cholera." He cursed her, humiliated her. She always responded with humility and great patience, saying, "Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Lord."

This torment lasted eighteen years. They wouldn't let her go to church, and she told me with tears in her eyes: "They took my shoes, Father, and threw them in the well or in the manure so I couldn't go. How could I go? Barefoot? So I took them out, washed them, and then wore them." And I say: "In winter, Mrs. Fotini? Did you wear them wet?" "No," she says, "I rubbed them with a little oil so that the neighbors wouldn't call me a beggar. And I went to church and didn't care."

So after eighteen years of a difficult life, one day, it was Clean Monday, Mr. Anestis had come home late the night before, at four in the morning, and was asleep. She prepared the baskets for her children in the morning, their little bags with their fasting food so they could go and celebrate Clean Monday outside in the countryside. Mr. Anestis woke up grumpy and said, "Fani, get up. And prepare the grill, because we're going to roast meat and eat our fill. Today I invited the children whose tavern is closed so we can all drink and eat together."

And poor Mrs. Fotini dared to say: "My dear Anestis, today is Clean Monday. All Christians fast and honor the beginning of Lent, when during Holy Week our Christ was crucified for our salvation. What shall we do? Shall we eat meat on Clean Monday like the Jews?" "Hey, you're going to call me a plague, a Jew, you're going to call me..." And as he began to shout and curse at her, he threw things from his living room at her, broke things, and as he was about to hit her... the Lord visited him with a high arm and he fell down dead.

He began to tremble, the children gathered around, and the son began to shout at his mother, "It's your fault, mother, because you killed our father. What did you do to him?"... It was a tragic situation. Mr. Anestis was also huge. The neighbors came. They put him to bed, and when the doctor arrived, all he could determine was that, unfortunately, he had suffered a stroke, his speech center had been affected, his mouth was crooked, and his right arm and right leg were paralyzed.

For eight and a half years, she cared for him patiently, saying nothing but, "Let us thank the Lord." Her children tormented her, booed her, mocked her, did the same things to her, but she endured, always saying, "Let us thank the Lord." Mr. Anestis would sometimes grumble. I say, "How did you manage, Mrs. Fotini?" "What could I do?" she says, "Father." At first, I didn't understand. Then one day, when I went to see him, he grabbed my hair with his left hand, which was his only strong one, and started pulling it.

He didn't let go until half an hour later, when his hand got tired. Only then did he calm down." "And did you do this often, Mrs. Fotini?" "Oh, thank God. Not very often. A couple of times a week. Just to give him a break. Because the poor man is stressed." And she didn't judge him. Thank God, she said. And he only pulled her hair twice a week. Anyway.

One Epiphany Eve, after eight and a half years, it was the Great Hours. And after the poor woman got the Holy Water, she hurried home to tidy up her house, prepare her oil lamp, and burn incense because Father Christmas was coming to bless the house. And indeed, Father Christmas came. And he blessed the house. Mr. Anestis didn't want him to read a prayer, grumbling because he didn't like priests, but he couldn't do anything else, where could he go since he was paralyzed? So the priest read it and left.

Following Father Christmas, however, comes Theofanis. Fani. The son. And he starts shouting: "What stinks here like a cemetery? You and your cemeteries. Go away, you moldy old thing. Are you burning incense again? What did we get from your incense? Here, let's go back. And what good did your incense do us?" And in his anger, he throws the oil lamp, throws the icons, throws the candles, and the poor woman goes outside to see what is happening in the living room from the kitchen, because she had rolled out the dough and was preparing pies, because they were coming the next day to wish her and her son well and she didn't want them to see her looking disheveled, and in his anger he takes the rolling pin from her hands and hits her on the head with it.

The poor woman fainted from the pain and fell down. Her neighbors came to revive her, put a bag of ice on her head, and when she came to an hour later and saw herself in the mirror, she was terrified. She had a bump on her forehead as big as an egg. And her whole right side had started to bruise. "Father, I'm upset. How can I go to church with this bump? How can I go with bruises? What will the neighbors say about the children? Your husband is fine, but what about the children? They will gossip and be upset."

"What did you do, dear Mrs. Fotini?" "I put a compress on it all night, Father, and in the morning I told my daughter to give me some of that powder they use to cover bruises. But what could I do about the bump? I thought, she says, I'll put on a veil, a scarf, and do as the pious do and go to the side. I won't go to the place where I used to go in church." "And did you do that, Mrs. Fotini?" She says: " Yes. I got up early in the morning."

The poor woman got up, tidied her house, changed Mr. Anestis, shaved him, washed him, got him ready, lit her candle, burned incense, and hurried off to church. "But when I entered the church, my priest, I saw a heavenly light inside the church. A light that shone and the chandeliers were extinguished." I say: "And what color was this light, Mrs. Fotini?" "White-blue, Father. The light was shining." "And even though it was bitterly cold outside, I felt a warmth. A warmth and a coolness. And my heart opened up. And I said, 'Thank you, Lord.'

So I went to the door on the far left, where the women sit, so that I could gaze upon the Almighty, rejoice, and be comforted. And as the Liturgy progressed, this Light grew stronger. And not only did it grow stronger, Father, but a golden dust fell and all this Light sparkled, as if there were thousands upon thousands of stars. And as I looked at the Almighty, what did I see, Father?

It had... This Light was coming out of the halo of our Christ, from His Face, His hands, the Holy Gospel... and it covered the world. And those who were in the Church, some were bathed in the Light and the Light entered them and they all became a lamp. Bright. Blue-white. The Light did not enter the others, but it caressed them.

And I asked her: "Did the Light come to you too? Did the Light come to your corner, to your little corner?" "Ah! Well, welcome, Father. It came." "How did you feel it, Mrs. Fotini?" " Like a hand caressing me. It touched my forehead, caressed my shoulders, my arms, and my palms. And then it moved to my left side. And the same thing happened. And my heart opened, Father, and my tears began to flow.

And not only that. But that Hand healed my wounds, closed all my wounds. Thirty-five years of wounds I had. The insults, the beatings, the rapes, the humiliation... Christ healed me of everything. I felt nothing. I felt an immense euphoria.

But there was something else, Father. With my eyes closed, I saw what was happening in the Liturgy. I saw everything. I saw the Great Entrance, I saw the Fathers, I saw the whole Liturgy. I experienced it in Paradise... But suddenly I saw the women start to move and I realized that we were going to receive Holy Communion.

It was time for Holy Communion. I got ready. And as I looked down to see my collar, what did I see? The Hand had healed me and the lump was gone! I didn't even have a lump! The lump was gone. And with great joy that I would not be exposed in the neighborhood, I stood in line.

But I decided to look, and so I looked to my right to see who was giving

Communion. Was it Father Vasilis who came and blessed us, or Father Giannis? And suddenly, my father... It wasn't Father Vasilis. Nor was it Father Giannis.

A bishop... But what a bishop... What golden vestments he wore! What diamonds and jewels adorned his clothes! He sparkled all over! And he wore a crown... Not like those of bishops. A royal crown. Thousands of diamonds and jewels sparkled on it. And on top of his crown were angels. But next to him were two guardian angels holding a mace.

I was seized with terror. His hands, His face, shone like the sun. And He held a golden chalice. But it did not contain the Body and Blood of Christ, it contained a burning coal. And the deceitful, I say, the poor woman, what will I do? How will I receive Communion with the coal? It seems that such rituals are common today.

Another Bishop has come and they have different customs. And what should I do?

And how will I burn? And will I raise my voice to the world?"

"And what did you do, Mrs. Fotini? Didn't you take communion?" "No," she said. "I pretended to be polite. And I went to the side and said, 'Go ahead. Go ahead, you too.'  About twenty-five people who were in line went ahead... Then there was no more 'go ahead'. I had to get in line." "What did you do, Mrs. Fotini?" "What did I do, you ask? I approached and looked down, unable to see the face of the Bishop, but even his shoes were golden. And the ANGELS NEXT TO HIM seemed as if they were not touching the ground.

 

And I said: "MY CHRIST, THANK YOU. Come, FOR YOUR LOVE. Let it be YOU and let me burn. Let it be YOU and let me burn. And I will receive Communion. I closed my eyes, placed the Makro (red cloth that we hold under our mouth during

Holy Communion) under my mouth, and opened my mouth." "Did you receive Communion, Mrs. Fotini?" "I did, Father." "Did you burn, Mrs. Fotini?" "No, Father. My soul was refreshed. My heart opened.

And I began to say from my heart: "Thank you, Lord. Let us thank the Lord. Let us thank the Lord. Thank you, Lord. And I began to say it aloud, and suddenly I heard the voice of Father Vasilis saying to me: "Mrs. Fotini, are you all right?" I opened my eyes and found myself in front of Father Vasilis, who was holding the Holy Chalice and covering me with the Makro.

I said, "My God, I'm going to faint..." and I went to the side and thought: "Was everything I saw real, Father? Could it have been my imagination? But I saw the Bishop, I saw the Angels, I saw so many things, I took Communion, am I crazy?" As soon as the blessing was over and I went home, I immediately went into the storeroom to change my clothes, to put on my house clothes and my apron to prepare the food. And when I got dressed, something smelled in the house.

I walked into the living room and what did I see? My little daughter was holding a censer and incensing the icons. The icons were in their place, my candle holder was decorated, my candles were lit, and next to the Virgin Mary was a small bouquet of flowers. And my daughter said to me: "Happy birthday, Mum. Today is a big day. We decided to burn incense, since you like to burn incense in the house. Did you really bring us a gift?" And I stood there... and thought: "In thirty-seven years in this house, no one has ever asked me for a gift."

And I replied to my daughter: "Let us thank the Lord. Let us thank the Lord!" Then my son came up behind me, bent down humbly, held my hand, and said, "Forgive me, Mum. Forgive me." And I replied, "Let us thank the Lord. Let us thank the Lord." .

And I hear Anestis calling me and I rush in to see if he wants something, and I see him sitting on his bed and he signals me with his left hand. And when I saw him, his face was serene and his eyes were sweet. And I give him my hand, thinking he wants to sit up, and he starts kissing it.

Inside and outside, my priest, he kisses it, crying, and says to me with half his mouth: "Forgive me, Fotini. Forgive me so you can be happy." And the child comes back... And I replied: "Let us thank the Lord. Let us thank the Lord," and my child comes back and kisses me on the forehead where the bump was and says to me: "Forgive me, mother. I won't do it again. I wish you well, mother." And I would reply: "Let us thank the Lord. Let us thank the Lord!"

And here Mrs. Fotini's story ended. She burst into tears.. And when she recovered, she asked me with childlike simplicity, like a little girl who had done something wrong: "Father, am I crazy? Have I gone mad? Do you think they'll lock me up in a psychiatric hospital? Do you think I should be tied up becauset I saw all those fantasies? Do you think I'm crazy? What do you say, Father? What do you think? Am I crazy? Have I gone mad?" And I replied: "Let us thank the Lord. Let us thank the Lord for your existence, Mrs. Fotini. Let us thank the Lord!"

Mrs. Fotini was not Saint Chrysostom, nor Saint Nilus, nor Saint John Climacus, nor the Great Paisios. She was a soul like you, like us. She simply learned well in her heart to say, "Let us give thanks to the Lord," and God rewarded her richly.

I will tell you the outcome because I know you will be happy. Today, Mrs. Fotini, now a widow, is a nun, and her children go and kiss her hand and forehead... And she sits there and listens and remembers Christ the Lord, who communed her with His Holy Body and Blood with the golden tongs.

May the Grace of God heal our hearts with His infinite love and teach us from the depths the depths of our hearts, upgrading our childlike prayer to one of thanksgiving, so that we too may say, giving the best of our heart and body: "Let us give thanks to the Lord for all things."

Mrs. Fotini and the Uncreated Light

Fr. Arsenios Sinaitis.