The last hour of daylight and we’re taking the children for a walk, catching the final rays of light before the sun sets behind the horizon. And she tells me about a woman she met, a fellow pilgrim at the monastery. How she grew up in communist Russia, lost her parents at an early age. Atheism all around her except the quiet presence of her grandmother. And the interior life of this babushka radiated on her exterior gentle hope. Always with Christ, always hidden. Always entered into the closet of her heart, door shut and living the spiritual life in secret. And the Heavenly Father rewarded those around her, opened their hearts. Her quiet ways spoke grace clear, filled the empty ...





















