This happened on one of those summer days. It was very warm, with a clear blue sky overhead. The sun illuminated everything so brightly that it felt as if its light was everywhere, saturating and warming everything, filling the soul with joy because nature was rejoicing, everything was green and blooming. You couldn’t stop marveling at how much God has created and how wisely it’s all arranged.
Just six months ago, it was winter. Frosty. Very short daylight hours. Everything covered in snow. All that endless whiteness and harshness, plus those nasty flu viruses that show up every winter, weighed heavily on the soul, bringing melancholy.
You long to make it to summer, to this happiness, this bliss of nature and soul, and to cherish every single day of this most wonderful season.
When I was a child, my grandfather used to tell me that summer is a little piece of paradise on earth. He taught me to observe everything in nature, to notice it, to protect it, to help it, and to thank God for giving us all this. To thank Him for letting us see this beauty and rejoice in it.
On such a blessed summer day, I had to make an unexpected stop at the countryside cottage, just for an hour or so. I opened the gate, stepped inside, and felt that familiar rush of joy and wonder: I’d only been away for a day or two, but coming back, it was as if I was seeing everything for the first time. Something had grown taller, new flowers had bloomed, new buds had appeared, berries had ripened, vegetables were maturing. This, too, was a little piece of happiness. I’m a very mediocre gardener, but with God’s help, I always have a harvest. For me, the most important thing is being close to the land and watching how a tiny seed grows into enormous pumpkins. Fruit trees and bushes, which seemed lifeless in winter, come alive and bloom in spring, then bear their fruits as a gift to people.
Suddenly, my phone rang. It turned out I needed to go to my relatives on the next street to pick up some baskets for vegetables.
I stepped out briefly, went to their place, and brought back the baskets. As I entered the gate, I heard a strange, unfamiliar sound coming from who-knows-where. I set the baskets on the porch, walked back to the gate, and listened. There it was again, a muffled “fr-r-r,” then silence. It happened a third time before I realized the sound was coming from a metal pipe embedded in the ground. The neighbors had replaced their fence the day before, putting up corrugated metal, and this pipe, about four inches in diameter, serving as a post, ended up on our side. I cautiously approached the pipe-post, and there it was again, that “fr-r-r” from the very bottom, lasting about five seconds before stopping. It dawned on me that a bird or some small creature was trapped inside, struggling to get out.
It was clear I had to help this creature, and fast: it was a hot day, the pipe was metal, and there might be little to no air at the bottom. I quickly inspected the pipe and saw a narrow slit at the base, but it was too small to slip anything through, and only something as tiny as a worm could escape through it.
I needed a quick solution and action. The first thing that came to mind was to sprinkle some water. I scooped water from a barrel and carefully splashed some into the pipe from the top. Suddenly, a frightened chirping came from below. It was clear now—a bird was down there, and I had to save it, to get it out. But how? I ran to the shed where the tools were kept. I needed something thin, long, with a protrusion at the end for the bird to perch on so I could pull it out of this trap. I touched a hoe—not suitable. I couldn’t find anything appropriate, but then I realized a thin rope or cord might work. I grabbed a cord, cut it to the right length, found a small metal nut, and needed something light and soft for the bird to cling to. I spotted a fluffy sock, turned it inside out, rolled it into a ball, tied it to the nut, and ran back to the pipe.
Meanwhile, the “fr-r-r” kept repeating: the bird was trying to fly up, rising slightly before falling back down. Confident now that I could help, I carefully lowered my makeshift device into the pipe. The bird chirped in fear again. I waited a moment, then gently pulled the cord with the sock-ball up, but the bird wasn’t on it—it was still at the bottom. I tried five or six more times, but it was no use.
Finally, I realized there was no way to free this bird: the pipe couldn’t be pulled out, cut, toppled, or turned over.
The “fr-r-r” was becoming rarer and shorter; the poor bird was losing strength. I had to do something, and quickly. But what?
As a child, my grandfather taught me, “When you see someone in trouble, imagine yourself in their place.” I wouldn’t wish to be in that bird’s place even in my worst nightmares: stuck at the bottom of a tall pipe, seeing a tiny patch of sky far above, knowing no one and nothing could help you escape that hell. My grandfather taught me not to ignore someone else’s suffering, to always try to help. He said, “You must help a person when they’re struggling, when they’re in despair; at other times, they’ll manage without you. God helps through people, and you must be one of them: have a kind heart, be selfless, generous, fearless, and remember—God Himself helps those who do good.”
In a state of helplessness and desperation, I ran to the little room where I keep my icons—my last and only hope, my plea for God’s help. “Lord, help, save this bird. You can do anything, everything is in Your power. Help, guide me, show me, give me understanding.
Holy Father Seraphim, you loved and pitied all creatures, help me get this bird out.
Elder Paisios of Mount Athos, you cared for and fed wild boars, birds, even snakes—help us.”
I ran out of the room, constantly praying, “Lord, help! Lord, teach me! Lord, show me!” I realized I needed something firm, rigid, light, thin, and long. My eyes fell on a raspberry cane. I grabbed the pruning shears, cut the cane at the root, and quickly stripped off all the leaves. What could I attach to it for the bird to perch on? Looking around, I saw a dried flower head of a carnation, saved for seeds—a perfect mid-sized hemisphere on a sturdy stem. I cut it off, tied it to the raspberry cane, and created the perfect, nearly weightless tool for saving the bird.
A part of me noted how quickly and smoothly everything was happening—where did this come from in someone as slow and clumsy as me, with such delayed reactions? It amazed and encouraged me.
I ran back to the pipe. No sounds came from it anymore. But, thrilled with the wonderful tool in my hands, I stood on a stump that was conveniently nearby, slowly lowered my “fishing rod” down, reached the bottom, waited a moment, and carefully began pulling it out, hoping the bird would perch on my carnation flower head. But when I pulled it up, the perch was empty. I tried three or four more times, realizing with each moment that hope for saving the bird was fading. I dropped everything, ran back to the room, knelt before the icons, and prayed, “Lord, forgive me, a sinner, negligent, unworthy, the worst of all, help. Help me get this bird out. Send Your Angel to help, to lift the bird, to help it escape to freedom. Lord, help!”
“Mother of God, help, cover us with Your protection.
Holy Father Nicholas the Wonderworker, help.
Holy Father Seraphim, Wonderworker of Sarov, help.
Elder Paisios of Mount Athos, help.”
I ran out again, back to the pipe. No sounds came from it, but I took my tool and, with bold prayer, pleaded, “Lord our God, help, You can do all things, send Your Angel, help.” I lowered it down, waited, and pulled it up—once again, no bird.
And there I was, left alone with my conscience.
Inside, I felt my sinfulness and unworthiness—all the vilest deeds of my life flashed through my mind, and a profound sense of repentance for all I’d done arose. I lowered the tool again, waited, and pulled it up, again and again, all while pleading with the Lord to help.
Somewhere in my subconscious, thoughts emerged: “If I can save this poor bird now, I can hope that God will help in any danger, in any despair, in the most incurable illness, in the deepest sorrow and grief.” And such confidence in this, such love for the Lord and all His creation, that I felt myself transforming inside. There was nothing superficial or vain, only humble trust in God, in His mercy, in His miracle.
Glory to God, the miracle happened, this unexpected joy! So sudden, though everything was done for this alone. It appeared in the form of a brown-beige ball. Yes, a ball. I pulled up my makeshift lift once more and saw: on my carnation flower head sat a tiny sparrow fledgling with slightly damp feathers, curled into a little ball, looking at God’s world with its bead-like eyes. And what a look it was! You might object—what kind of look can a bird have? But this fledgling had one, and what a look! One I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
It was the most beautiful, the best fledgling in the world, saved by the Lord Himself.
The first thing I did was carefully move the perch with its precious, extraordinary passenger away from that cursed pipe: the fledgling might get scared, seeing a human so close for the first time, and fall back in.
Glory to You, God! Glory to You, God! Glory to You, God! We thank You, Lord, together with this fledgling, for this miracle of salvation.
The fledgling was exhausted and weak: the poor thing had tried so many times to fly out of the pipe. Now I needed to give it water and food. I tried to place it on a thick branch of a bird cherry tree near the gate, but it couldn’t even sit, nearly falling off.
I placed it on the grass under the tree, brought some water in a jar lid, and tried to give it a drink. A little seemed to get into its beak. I needed to feed it quickly—birds feed their young so often, and this one had been hungry for so long. I went to find food for it. I dug into a pile of compost and found a worm, but it wouldn’t touch it. I had nothing else to feed it with—I’d ended up here by chance today.
Our plot is at a dead end, with seven neighbors around. I ran to see who I could ask for something edible. I saw a neighbor with her young son and said, “Mary, dear Mary, I’ve got a little fledgling here, and I have nothing to feed it. Please help.” She immediately brought me some bread and a piece of meat. Thanking her, I hurried back to my fledgling, who was still sitting there, motionless. I crumbled the bread, broke the meat into tiny pieces, and placed it in front of it, but the poor thing touched nothing. I prayed again, “Lord, send its parents to feed it, help us.”
My fledgling sat under the tree, now dry and seemingly coming to life. To my great joy, it stirred, stretched out from a round ball into a thin, long sparrow, and, hopping curiously on the ground, began pecking at the bread crumbs. It turned out it was already independent and could feed itself without its parents.
The little sparrow hopped and pecked at the crumbs. Suddenly, it flew up and landed on the fence. It sat there, watching as the neighbor’s cat approached our gate. I usually feed her, but this time I had to shoo her away, though not without a treat—I gathered the bread crumbs and meat from the ground and took them outside the fence.
Glory to God, everything ended well. My soul felt a rare sense of God’s grace. I knew for certain: God was near. So close, He heard us and helped us.
I wanted to tell everyone about it, to share this joy, this happiness. And most importantly, what my soul experienced in such a short time, though it felt so long. My soul was washed clean, it rejoiced, it felt light and warm. I understood this was a gift from the Lord, showing me that He exists, that He not only helps but also holds us accountable for everything. It all happened by chance, but as they say, behind every chance stands the One whose name is God. Now I looked at that corner and that pipe-post (by the way, I immediately covered it with a plastic bucket) with tenderness, wanting to decorate it, to plant the best flowers there.
My ringing phone interrupted my thoughts. This time, a neighbor offered to drive me back to the city. Any other time, I would’ve been thrilled, but now, thanking her for her kindness, I declined.
My soul craved solitude, to process what had happened, to walk along the riverbank, the forest edge, the green meadow, and to see it all with new eyes, thanking the Lord. Thanking Him for the sun, for summer, for the air, for water, for life—for all His creations. Thanking Him for His infinite mercy toward people, toward me, toward my children.
How skillfully He teaches us, even through a tiny sparrow, this little angel with wings, so innocent, yet fallen into a kind of hell… Where will my soul end up when the hour comes to answer for all I’ve done? You live knowing that hour will come for everyone, but for yourself, you push it aside, not wanting to think about it. You think you go to church, you repent, you confess. But how? Self-justification and self-pity come first, an inability to recognize your sins, to discern your passions because you’re so steeped in them. If only I didn’t know this. Of course, I knew. My grandfather said, “Fear the first sin. One sin leads to another. If you’ve done something wrong, reflect, repent, call on God for help, and correct yourself. Otherwise, a chain of sins will form, and the dark forces will lead our souls by it, like a leash, to eternal torment.” How could I forget all this?
Today, the Lord showed me, reminded me, what deep, piercing, lightning-like repentance, free of self-justification, should be. He let me feel all my sinfulness, all my unworthiness. I remember feeling such filth within me, like a potato sack turned inside out—clean on the outside, but what’s inside? And how much effort it takes to shake it out, wash it, rinse it. And that’s just a sack. But here—it’s my soul. My soul. Which, at times in my life, I forgot existed, remembering only when I felt burning shame for a deed or during life’s heavy trials, when it seemed impossible to go on.
Later, churches opened, and we began to attend, and it became clear that each of us has a soul, deeply burdened, and only the Heavenly Physician—God—can heal it. This healing is long and persistent, possible only through repentance and good deeds. I have so little of both that the bad and evil outweigh them many times over. Only through someone’s prayers and with the help of my Guardian Angel, through deep repentance, can I hope for God’s mercy, for the salvation of my soul. As my grandmother used to say, “Into the tiniest corner—just to get to paradise…”
Reflecting on this, I reached the church. All that remained was to enter and order a thanksgiving service to the Lord Jesus Christ for saving His creature and, most importantly, for the awakening of my own soul, which is at the bottom of a pipe just like that one.
Help me, Lord, to rise and fly out of it.
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