Following the Flame, Part VIII: A Place That Was Never Mine

During Great Lent, I felt extreme depression in my situation and loneliness. On the Feast of the Unfading Rose, I begged the Most Holy Theotokos, and this black cloud was immediately lifted. I continued on to serve and to visit Archbishop Auxentios nearby in Petroupoli.
The summer soon arrived, however, and with it, another unexpected turn.
The Athens orphanage closed for the summer holiday, and the children were brought to an island facility that also belonged to this same orphanage. I was sent there in advance to prepare things. Most of the rooms at the property were actually rented out to elderly vacationers who would pay the orphanage. Many of whom were quite well off. As for me, I was given a tiny room—in all truth, as unbelievable as it sounds, the church’s closet. The heat of the summer and the island sun and temperatures made for a frightful combination. My days became those of service. I drove the elderly back and forth to the seaside, helping them in whatever way I could. One day, one of the men suffered a heart attack. I rushed him to the island’s medical center, and from there he was airlifted by helicopter to Athens.
Although I was occupied with practical responsibilities, inwardly I struggled.
This was not the life I believed God was calling me to. My heart still longed for a more monastic form of life. I respected those around me, but I knew I did not belong there. The flame that had guided me since my youth continued to burn, quietly reminding me that my journey was not yet over.
When the opportunity came, I returned to Athens. Slowly, I gathered my few belongings from the room the orphanage had given me. A few of the sisters had remained behind, and the daily services continued as before. I was grateful for their kindness, but I knew it was time to move on once again.
It was then that I renewed contact with the bishop to whom I had made my confession years earlier. His sisters, the nuns, had patiently taught me to read at the chanter’s stand during my first visits to Greece, and through God’s providence our paths crossed once more.
He proposed that I become the priest for this small community, basically his sisters according to the flesh. After prayer and reflection and with great fear, I accepted, and in due course I was ordained to the holy priesthood.
I hoped that perhaps this would finally be the place where I could serve quietly and faithfully. I had been given a cell. I attended the services.
Yet events unfolded differently.
At about the same time, a deacon from the New Calendar Church was received. I was given the task of teaching him liturgics and basic information about the True Orthodox. It soon became evident that he would become the principal serving priest. I, on the other hand, was expected to leave for a parish. I still remember how I wanted their love and acceptance. How I wanted to feel protected and instructed among them….
I can say that perhaps I was at fault. I was not what they wanted. However, the other soon-to-be priest was also quickly sent away.
Once again, I found myself standing at a crossroads.
This was not the path I had envisioned. I had never sought to build a career, gather followers, or establish myself as a parish priest. My heart had always been set on a monastic life that included serving the faithful of the True Orthodox Church—a life of prayer, obedience, and hidden service.
It seemed that every door I entered eventually closed, and every place where I hoped to remain became only another stopping point along the road. I started to waver at the mere thought of the tiny monasteries.
Yet I had learned something by then.
The flame had never failed me.
It had led me through disappointment before, and somehow I knew it would continue to lead me still.