Icons and Oil Lights

We’d passed the cathedral earlier that morning, five golden domes rising from white stone and snow like lamps in the fog. Dani had tried the door then, but it wouldn’t budge. A groundskeeper intercepted us, a bearded man in a thick coat and heavy boots, half-lost in the morning snow as he shoveled the steps clear.

We didn’t understand his words, but his meaning was clear: come back later.

That was several hours ago.

Dani grabbed the handle.

“Want to try again?”

I reached for it too, feeling the worn iron against my fingers, and together we heaved the wooden doors open.

~

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

No electric lights—only candles and shafts of winter light filtered through narrow stained-glass slits in the stone.

A row of folding chairs sat on one side of velvet ropes. I set down my pack and found a seat. Dani sat too.

Even the hard metal felt nice after so much walking.

Past the rope, icons of Mary, Jesus, and saints covered the walls. Small crimson glass lamps hung before them. The faces were dulled by centuries and soot, yet the flickering oil lights made them seem briefly alive again.

Worshippers moved through the shadows, crossing themselves three times before kissing the icons.

I didn’t know what any of it meant.

~

Near the entrance, a small counter sold candles and icons. Among the postcards and candles, Dani spotted a crucifix featuring a small figure of Jesus on the cross. She bought one for her mother.

“Do you want one too? You know… for your mom?”

I hesitated.

Before I’d left for this trip, my mom called.

“Are there any Christians in Russia?”

I told her that Russian towns had an overwhelming density of Orthodox churches.

She paused.

“I know they have Orthodox churches, but do they have any Christian ones?”

I didn’t know what to say.

~

I looked back into the sanctuary. Smoke drifted between the faces, moving through the oil light like visible breath.

Then back to the figure in the case.

The woman handed it to me.

I turned it over once in my hands, feeling its familiar shape.

“No. I don’t think I will.”