Paschal Story

Perhaps every priest carries within him a Paschal story—a true one, when all that remains to say is: Christ is risen! Any other words seem unnecessary.

Such a story was told to me by a friend, Father Eugene. I have known it for many years. Each Pascha, as he recalls it, we find ourselves wondering anew.

It happened long ago. On Pascha night, after the service, a call came to the church: someone was asking for a priest to come and baptise a man at home—a dying man, they said.

Even on Pascha, he could not refuse. Father Eugene, being the youngest, went, taking the Holy Gifts with him.

He found an elderly man lying on a bed—frail, barely able to speak, yet not quite what one would call dying. His relatives stood nearby, somewhat embarrassed:

It happened long ago. On Pascha night, after the service, a call came to the church: someone was asking for a priest to come and baptise a man at home—a dying man, they said.

Even on Pascha, he could not refuse. Father Eugene, being the youngest, went, taking the Holy Gifts with him.

He found an elderly man lying on a bed—frail, barely able to speak, yet not quite what one would call dying. His relatives stood nearby, somewhat embarrassed:

“He won’t leave us in peace. He insists he is about to die and must be baptised at once. It’s all very strange—he’s never cared for the Church. He’s over eighty now, not always fully himself… but he wouldn’t let us be. Nearly fell out of bed insisting on it.”

The old man confirmed his desire. So Father Eugene baptised him and gave him Holy Communion—without a full confession, for Baptism washes away all sins. He spoke simply to him of the faith, of the sacraments, of the Gospel.

The old man wept. He tried to explain—something about how he had once forced his way into a church, broken its doors—but his words were confused. The tears, however, were sincere. Father Eugene comforted him and returned to the church.

He later said that he had left the man in reasonably sound condition. The old man had even sat up to see him off.

That same evening, the relatives called:

“Our grandfather, Anatoly, has died—just as he said. After you left, he lay quietly, smiled… kept murmuring, ‘How good…’ Then he fell asleep—and did not wake.”

Later, Father Eugene would reflect:

“I could not help but think—such an end is not given without cause. On Pascha, the Lord took him to Himself—after Baptism, after Communion—cleansed of everything, like a child, having tasted the joy of the Resurrection, and with no time left to return to sin.”

After the funeral, he spoke with the family. Perhaps, he wondered, the man had lived a hidden righteous life?

But Anatoly had been an ordinary man. He drank. At times he was harsh even with his wife. There were other things too. And in his youth, he had once helped break down the doors of a church.

His grandmother, Catherine, had cried out:

“What are you doing—against God Himself!”

He had not even been baptised—his parents would not allow it in those days. But her words struck him with fear. He turned back and left.

And so he lived as many did—without much that was good.

Yet there was one story his family remembered.

Once, while working in the forest, a tree fell on him. His leg was badly injured, and he limped for the rest of his life. Worse still, the man responsible blamed him—claimed Anatoly had been drunk and careless. It was not true. But the accusation was believed. The other man had connections; Anatoly had none. And though he had been given alcohol for the pain, the smell was enough to condemn him.

That injustice stayed with him. For years, it burned within.

He would sometimes wonder: if there is a God, why was this allowed? Why was the wrong not set right? Yet he pushed such thoughts away. Better, he told himself, if there is no God at all. Easier that way.

He could not forgive.

Years passed. The man who had wronged him—Victor—had a son who fell gravely ill. The whole village knew. The boy was near death.

Anatoly felt a bitter satisfaction.

“This is for my leg,” he said.

He even went to their house and looked through the window, wanting to see their grief.

Inside, Victor and his wife were on their knees beside the bed—worn down with grief. Victor swayed back and forth like a man undone.

And suddenly, despite everything, Anatoly felt pity. It startled him.

In his heart he said:

“God, if You exist, let the boy live.”

At that moment, something within him changed. The anger left him. He forgave.

The boy was taken to hospital—and lived.

After that, Anatoly even tried to greet Victor. But the man would avert his eyes. It no longer mattered. The burden had lifted. It was as though someone strong had taken the weight from his heart and cast it aside.

Years passed. Victor died. His wife died. Their children moved away. Anatoly remained in the village with his family. His wife, in her old age, would sometimes go to church—light a candle. But Anatoly would not. He did not wish to be baptised. Perhaps the old fear lingered—that if he acknowledged God, he would be punished for that broken door.

And then, on that Paschal day, he suddenly knew: the time had come.

This was all he said to Father Eugene:

“I need this. I am dying.”

He was baptised, received Holy Communion—and on Pascha, he fell asleep in the Lord.

Each year, Father Eugene would say:

“I think the Lord showed him this mercy for that one act—forgiving. Not for a life of virtue; there was little of that. Not for righteousness; he had not lived such a life. But perhaps for that alone: that he forgave.

“It was no small thing. The wound ran deep. Yet, with God’s help, he let it go. He took one small step towards the One he scarcely believed in—and the Lord received him, forgave him everything… even that broken door.

“There is no bargaining here—only the great power of forgiveness, which opens the way to heaven, as we are taught in the Our Father. But these are only my thoughts. The heart of a man is known to God alone. How he repented inwardly—we cannot know.

“And why he came to God only at the end—we do not know that either. Perhaps it had to be so. The important thing is that the Lord waited for him. For more than eighty years He waited—guarding him, preserving him, gently leading him… until, when the time had come, He sent word: ‘Now.’

“And brought him straight to Himself—on the Paschal feast.”

And Father Eugene would always conclude:

What is this, if not a miracle—to be baptised, to receive Communion, and to depart to God with Paschal joy in one’s heart? On such a day, when heaven stands open.

And to forgive one’s enemy—that too is a great miracle. The resurrection of the human soul.