Escape from hell

A spiritual upheaval. Photo: UOJ

Simeon lived in a tiny room right under the roof of the monastery’s dormitory, far off from the world. “Like Karlsson living on a roof,” he used to joke to himself, listening to the rain whisper across the slate tiles. He would drift into sleep to the sad lullaby of rain mixed with the sighing autumn wind tearing down what little remained of November’s leaves.

The radiator under the window breathed warm air, the soft flicker of the lampada before the icons, and the scent of dried summer mint filled the place with a quiet, gentle peace. His heart settled into the steady rhythm of prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner…”

And then came the same dream – the one that had been haunting him night after night. He stood in an expensive suit, a crisp white shirt, and a bright tie, surrounded by his team. He’d call out to his secretary, Lyudochka, ask her to make coffee for everyone, and announce with pride that yet another deal with a Belgian company had bumped their profits up by twenty percent. Applause, satisfaction, success.

A moment later he was sinking into the leather seat of a BMW, telling the driver, “To the country house!..” He called his wife, asking what groceries to pick up, and she opened the door with a warm smile: “You must be tired, my hard-working one…” She kissed him softly. Home. Comfort. Family.

And then Simeon woke up…

Rain was still tapping against the roof. He tried to pull the dream back, to catch its fading edges. But the night-watch monk’s little bell was already ringing, calling everyone to the midnight office. With a grunt, he got up, crossed himself, and whispered, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner…”

Second wind – and the beginning of the fall

After his nighttime prayers he often feared insomnia. Not so much not being able to fall asleep, but waking up in the night. He would open his eyes around two in the morning, convinced he’d slept enough and it was time for the service. But the clock disappointed him again, and he’d flop back onto the bed. His spiritual father had forbidden late-night prayer: “You work hard in the cowshed during the day, your body needs rest.” And it was true – he often nodded off during obedience. So he really was supposed to sleep. But sleep refused to come, and his mind grew heavier with every passing thought…

How did all of this happen? How did he end up at the very bottom? Why didn’t he stop in time? He had willpower once. Experience. Drive. He knew how to push through. In business especially – you couldn’t relax, you had to move toward your goal by any means necessary, honest or not.

He learned this back in his twenties, after the army, when he practiced karate two hours every other day. When he thought he couldn’t keep going, he still dragged himself to practice, knowing that “second wind” always comes. And it did. Strength returned, lightness followed, and the joy of inner victory. Life worked the same way.

But then something broke. Where? When he held his first crisp thousand-dollar bill? When he and his wife flew to Italy for vacation? Or the night he got drunk with friends in an expensive restaurant, sat down at a roulette table, and blew three thousand dollars in one go?

Then came anger – cold and sharp. He marched back into the casino, dead sober, determined to win it back. And he did. Then he won an enormous sum, stuffed a whole briefcase with cash, and carried it to the car with wild delight. He never touched drugs, but the addiction was real – the withdrawal hit whenever he tried to leave the casino behind.

Family life cracked. Work collapsed. There was no money to pay employees, and some quit. He needed a second wind again. But this time it didn’t come. Alcohol did.

The point of no return

A few sips in the morning, another every hour, and by evening he was drinking properly. Even at night – just to fall asleep. Liza cried, begged him, drove him to hospitals for detox. He’d sober up, and with sobriety came anger – at home, at work, at life. What was missing? Repentance. He didn’t blame himself. He blamed everything else.

Then another year passed. The company had to be shut down. He switched to reselling things, “buy-and-sell.” Income was small, but enough to survive. Until one day he scored a big deal with a foreign metal trader and pocketed a massive sum. Victory!

Now, in the monastery, he understood: the enemy had once again trapped him with his beloved dollars. He hadn’t thanked God even once. He hadn’t helped anyone. Not even his elderly parents who barely survived the harsh 1990s. And worst of all – he now realized that no one beats this alone, without God.

But at the time, the rush of money after his long dark streak hit him like a storm and spun his head wildly…

And then came a young single woman out of nowhere, and stood firmly between him and Liza. His wife, who had lived with him for twenty years, borne two sons, and fought for him until she had nothing left, filed for divorce. And he accepted it with relief – while feeling like a traitor to everything he’d once loved.

Why didn’t he stop?.. He knew why. He didn’t know there was a way out – repentance. There was no repentance. Only pride. “Oh, that’s how it is?” he muttered to himself. And he left Liza everything – the apartment, the country house, the car, even the credit card loaded with money. The kids were grown. He told himself he wasn’t abandoning them. But he did. And he rolled downhill like a snowball tumbling from a mountain…

Roulette drained the last of his money. He became poor, alone, a wreck of an alcoholic. “O God! Why have You abandoned me? Why such punishment?”

Сompletely crushed, he wandered into a church one day. He remembered his grandmother – his mother’s mother – who prayed constantly, at home and in church. She used to say, “Remember, Semyon, without God you won’t even make it to the doorstep…” She was surely praying for him now, from heaven…

The priest – elderly, gentle, attentive – placed his hand on the epitrachelion as Simeon poured out his soul through tears. After a long confession, the priest said quietly:

“Well now, my child… It seems you’ve reached the point of no return. I know your sort well. These are people who’ve lost even the basic sense of responsibility, who’ve sunk, as they say, below the baseboard, fallen into a hellish captivity, unable to climb out… Still, you can try. Your soul is alive, and you have a great deal of life experience. Go to a monastery a hundred kilometers from here. Father Matfey, the abbot, takes in people like you. I’ll give you the address, a letter of recommendation, and we’ll buy you a ticket…”

A new obedience

That very November morning, Father Matfey called Simeon into his office.

“We’re moving you to a different obedience, brother. You’ll handle the monastery bookkeeping. You’ve seen how much construction is happening here, haven’t you? And listen carefully: you’re not just someone suffering from a passion for drinking – you’re a seriously ill man. And if you don’t want to end up in hell, you must thank God every single day that you’re alive and living under the protection of the Most Holy Theotokos, and you must pray to Her constantly for sobriety and spiritual vigilance.

Add to your morning prayer rule the teachings of the Holy Fathers about the dangers of drinking… And memorize them. For, as the Apostle Peter says: ‘Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour’ (1 Pet. 5:8).

The devil is cunning. He whispers that large doses of alcohol are harmful, but a little shot or two won’t hurt, just for your health. And from that little shot comes the binge. And often – death. And then where will your soul go? You know well enough… And one more thing. You asked for tonsure a year ago. Prepare yourself. We’ll tonsure you during Great Lent. Well? Have you changed your mind?”

“I haven’t,” Simeon answered, stunned.

And he walked to the cowshed – already dear to him – to say goodbye to his cows. Or maybe even to ask their forgiveness…

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