How much I remember, as a child, I was always afraid of something: terrible stories, rustling in the house, noisy people’s meetings, everything that at that time I could not explain or understand. In general, I considered myself a hopeless coward and probably expected a miracle that would change my life.
The answer was found by itself. I was about nine years old. Mom, brother and I settled in an old wooden house with awful (for me!) Underground and not having a door to the attic entrance. After the war, the meager village life in the provincial city district also did not inspire optimism. And if we take into account the stories of “knowledgeable” friends about our new home, then, of course, my fears gained incredible scope.
That morning, about four o’clock, I was awakened by a loud voice. Someone called me by the name under the window of the house, but at the same time it seemed as if the sound had traveled a great distance, as if it was not the call itself, but its echo. I squeezed into the pillow and froze. The call was repeated several times, until my mother’s words took me out of the stupor: “Come out! Can not you hear? “. I almost mechanically slipped past the gaping black mouth of the attic into the pre-dawn darkness, faster – to the people. The street met me with silence: there was not a soul around. Pressing my back against the wall of the house, for some reason I began to hail the names of not my friends, but my brother’s friends. No one answered, even nature seemed to be frozen. A new wave of fear pushed me into the house, back to bed.
Mom was already going to work, but, feeling wrong, tried to give me confidence: “Go at night, all the toys you have. Someone joked … “I pretended to be asleep. Another day it would have happened (I still like to sleep until late). When my mother and brother left, I also hurried to leave a frightening place. Until noon I wandered by the river and through the streets.
My legs brought me home … To the former house. All morning, neighbors extinguished the fire, tried to get into the fire-covered room, because my mother came running from work and claimed that I stayed there, in bed. So by the time of my return, many already thought me dead. It was at that moment that I realized that the pre-dawn call was the voice of my Guardian. And fear? – And how else could you get the coward out of the house if you can not change the predestined one?
A little later my mother told me about her father. He very much wanted a daughter and, as my mother said, even before my birth knew that the future child was a girl. At the front, my father left at once, in June 1941. In August 1942, with an hour for an hour, I came home, to visit my family, to look at my long-awaited daughter. It was then that he promised that he would never leave me, no matter what happened. In 1943, his father was killed.
Then, to a little girl, it was easier for me to accept help from my own person than to look for the supernatural reasons for the strange salvation, and I convinced myself that my dad was with me, that he was protecting me and supporting me. Almost overnight, all my fears evaporated. The forces reinforced the understanding of a simple truth: it is impossible to overcome death for a living person, but is it worth it to poison a precious life with fear?
My keeper is still there. In the most difficult and dangerous moments, he tries to warn me, sometimes prompts an exit, offers a choice. No, he is not a salesman in the store, and very rarely tells me anything with plain text. You know, as they say: everything one to one develops, as written. We are connected (sorry, I do not know how!) Surprisingly strong. My – and not only mine: the needs of familiar people, when I can heart them to take them for my – strong desires and feelings (if they are not momentary and do not go to the detriment of somebody) necessarily materialize. This, too, turned into an axiom for me.
The only thing that worries me: I have not learned to control my emotions, and anger, rejection of a particular person are so strong that they can cause physical harm to the offender. Unfortunately, I can not always “smooth” out an angry thought that has flown away, a word that does not carry good.The result, as a rule, is not pleasant for the addressee: from illness to the rank of ordinary failures – here I am already “commanded” not by me. On the contrary, I often try to “return” a moment, to forget my mistake. That’s when you remember the biblical commandment about the purity of thoughts!
By the way, the priest in our church told me that “all my stories are not about the deeds of God.” What do you think?