“Father Nicholas, Help!” Three Miracles of Saint Nicholas

That summer, I was alone in our village house while my husband was constantly away on business trips. Though our village was nearly deserted—only a few houses still occupied—my husband didn’t worry about me. Our big golden retriever greeted any unwanted visitors near the fence with a deep, resonant bark. The villagers respected him for his size and were a little afraid—exactly as we wanted. Only we knew that those forty muscular kilograms, that magnificent mouth with snow-white fangs, and that tail like an ostrich plume belonged to the gentlest dog on earth. But we never told anyone: let them stay a little wary—all the better!

We were helping a local priest restore an ancient, ruined church. Once, I brought some donations for the church, along with my grandmother’s icon of Saint Nicholas, to give to Matushka Arina—an acquaintance skilled in restoration.

Matushka Arina, a sturdy middle-aged woman with a tanned, weathered face, arrived at our village in an elegant jeep. She examined the icon respectfully, crossed herself, and reverently kissed the image.

“My beloved saint…” she shared. “Saint Nicholas always helps so much! Remember: when trouble comes, cry out to him…”

I knew, of course, that Saint Nicholas was a great saint and quick to help. I’d read his life and heard snippets of miraculous stories through prayers to him, but I hadn’t dwelled on it much… I’d never really had reason to. Besides, I doubted my own ability to truly “cry out.” So I nodded vaguely, thinking the conversation was over. But Matushka persisted:

“In any trouble, any difficulty, just call out loudly: ‘Father Nicholas, help!’—and everything will resolve for the best…”

“Just like that?” I asked, slightly taken aback. “But he is the Archbishop of Myra in Lycia, a Holy Hierarch…”

“Don’t doubt it!” Matushka assured me. “That’s exactly what I do whenever I have problems, especially on the road—and you wouldn’t believe the miracles that happen! Even with the traffic police…”

“Really?” I couldn’t help sounding skeptical.

“Of course!” she replied enthusiastically. “Just recently, I was driving late at night on the highway,” she nodded towards her jeep, “and my vehicle inspection had expired! I was in the very last hour you can drive without a fine… And suddenly, ahead—a traffic police checkpoint! Lit up like a Christmas tree in the dark, taking full advantage… I cursed myself for putting off the inspection, swore I’d get it done properly the very next day… but the checkpoint kept getting closer! I could already see the officer stepping onto the road, twirling his white baton in the darkness…”

I shuddered. Matushka continued:

“And then I cried out inwardly: ‘Father Nicholas, help!’”
“Did you manage to slip past?”

Matushka shook her head.

“No, of course not! He stopped me. Smirking, he checked my documents and invited me to process the fine. I followed him, but inside, I never stopped crying out and calling on Saint Nicholas… He pulled out the form, started filling it in… and suddenly looked up and asked in a surprisingly human voice: ‘Tell me, if I let you go right now, will you get the inspection done tomorrow?’ ‘Today!’ I exclaimed with iron resolve. ‘It’s already five past midnight!’ He tossed the form into the bin and handed back my untouched documents. Overjoyed, I gave him a stack of car magazines that had been lying on my back seat forever—poor guy must be bored stiff out there all night…”

“Yes, that’s a miracle,” I agreed with a sigh.

“They might be hard as stone, but what are they against Saint Nicholas!” Matushka proclaimed triumphantly. As she drove off, she reminded me: “You understand? ‘Father Nicholas, help!’”

Little did I know I’d need to put her advice into practice so soon…

That very night, thieves tried to break in—two men in leather jackets. How they “sensed” I was alone, or that an envelope with money for the church restoration lay in my dresser, I don’t know. They first came around midnight. Our retriever, sleeping in the entryway, greeted the strangers with a formidable bark. They loitered near the car parked by the gate, shouting for the owner. I peeked through the small window and yelled that the owner was asleep. They left. I went to bed, first letting the retriever out for deterrent effect.

Around two in the morning, the thieves returned—I heard frantic barking. Peering out the window, I saw the gate wide open, two men wandering the yard, and our retriever sprinting down the street towards the outskirts. His tail, like an ostrich plume in the dark, was wagging with pure puppyish joy—hunting blood, as they say, is thicker than water! It always called him to the fields and woods, a joy we rarely gave him…

Panicked, I shouted through the window that my husband would wake up any moment and the dog would return. But the thieves, having clearly sized both me and the retriever up, were slowly approaching the porch. From somewhere deep inside me burst out: “Saint Nicholas… Help!” Even then, I couldn’t bring myself to be too familiar with the Holy Hierarch…

Suddenly, I remembered the young taxi driver from the next village whom I’d met that morning at the gas station. He’d seen the icon of Saint Nicholas in my car, said his name was Kolya (Nicholas), and asked to venerate it. Gratefully, he’d given me his number in case I ever needed help. I quickly called Kolya and breathlessly described the situation. Luckily, the guy was celebrating something with friends nearby and raced over instantly, scaring off the robbers.

Later, he helped me track down and bring home the retriever, whose reputation in the village took a serious nosedive after that…

The third incident happened a few weeks later. Driving home along a familiar country road, I lost control avoiding a bad pothole. The car veered off, rolled down a slope, and landed wheels-down in a meadow. Stunned but unharmed, I sat there as cars sped past on the highway above. No one stopped—probably just thought a woman had pulled over to rest in the field…

I pulled myself together and called the priest we knew, who, for some reason, hadn’t left the church yet. I explained the situation and asked him to come help: the engine wouldn’t start. The priest, an Afghan War veteran and very capable man, arrived swiftly in his old Zhiguli. He waved down cars on the highway, and a couple of jeeps stopped immediately, offering assistance. Soon, my car was back on the road, its engine running smoothly. The priest gave me some advice and suggested I get the car checked soon: something might have cracked, especially with those decent-sized stones poking out of the grass on that slope… And the wheel alignment surely needed adjusting.

We did just that. However, it turned out that neither I nor the car had suffered a single scratch. The wheel alignment didn’t even need correcting. When I told the priest, finally revealing the secret of the miraculous cry, he scratched his head and said, “Well, it’s an everyday thing! With Saint Nicholas, greater miracles than that happen…”

 

Translated by The Catalogue of Good Deeds
Source: https://foma.ru/batyushka-nikolushka-pomogi-3-chuda-svyatitelya-nikolaya.html