Chapter 7

A Sainted Brother’s History of a Sainted Sister

THE histories of the lives of God’s saints are precious to us. The stories relating to the way by which they reached the kingdom of heaven are instructive for us. But more instructing, more touching, are these stories when they are told, not by some unknown writer, but by God’s holy ones, — the veritable witnesses of the truth. We offer our readers the sainted brother’s story of a sainted sister, the narrative about the holy Makrina, by St. Gregory, of Nice. “Our parents named the child Makrina because there was a famous Makrina among our ancestors, namely, our father’s mother, who suffered for Christ during the persecutions. The child was raised by its mother. Having passed the infant’s age, she learned her childhood lessons with much zeal, and at the same time disclosed a rare talent. The mother took no pains in teaching her the worldly arts, but chiefly tried to have her acquire the wise sayings of Solomon and the Psalms. Did she arise from bed, or commence her work and finish the same; did she go to her meal, or leave the table; did she lie down to sleep, or kneel in prayer, — she continually had a song of the Psalms on her lips, and never was without it. And so Makrina reached her twelfth year, the age when the flower of youth especially begins to bloom. The fortunate beauty of the maiden could not be concealed, and many desiring to wed her came to her parents with their proposal. In the countries of the East, as is yet the custom, children are betrothed (not wedded) at an early age.” The wise father selected one who came from a celebrated race, a young man known for his good morals, and to him he decided to wed his daughter when she became of age. But fate suddenly destroyed these beautiful hopes, snatching him away from this life at a much-to-be-mourned-for youthful age. Then it was the maiden decided to lead a lonely life; and when our parents would touch upon the question of matrimony, she would say that her betrothed did not die, but is alive with God; therefore, it is unreasonable for me to break the promise. “She never separated from her mother, and the daughter’s services substituted the work of many servants. The mother did service benefiting the maiden’s soul, but she worked for her mother physically. For instance, she often prepared the bread for her mother, and took part in all the cares of the household, together with the mother, as the father had now left this life, and the mother had four sons and five daughters (Makrina being the eldest). When our mother settled her other daughters, there returned home to us, after a long absence at institutions of education, our brother, the great Basil (Basil the Great). Finding him thinking profoundly of oratory, Makrina soon attracted his attention to Christian philosophy, for which he cast aside the wordly vanity, and commenced a laborious ascetic life. Finally she induced our mother to lead the same kind of life, and she also commenced the pious labor on equal terms with the virgins. Their life was so holy that I do not know how to describe it. Reaching a very old age, our mother died on the hands of her children. In the ninth year of his prelacy the eminent Basil goes to God. Hearing of this from a distance, Makrina’s soul sorrowed much for this great loss. Yet, under such weighty strokes of misfortune, she remained as firm as an invincible warrior. Soon after this, I, Gregory, became desirous of visiting my sister; for, during eight years, severe circumstances which I suffered prevented the meeting before. On the day before my arrival at the place where she lived, I had a vision in a dream; it seemed as though I carried on my hands the relics of a martyr, and from the relics shone forth such a light that I could not look upon them. I saw the same three times in one night. A kind of melancholy filled my soul. Coming near to the abode of my sister, I questioned one whom I met about my sister. He told me that she was sick. I hurried; my heart seemed to shrink away. When I entered her sacred apartment [cell, in the original], I found her not lying on a bed, or on a litter, but on the floor, on a board covered with a hair cloth; another board, placed slantingly, served as a pillow.

Raising herself on her elbow, for now she could not get up—she offered me the salutation at meeting. I ran to her, consoled her, and helped her back again; then, outstretching her arms towards heaven, she said: And this joy also Thou didst grant me, God! Thou didst not deprive me of what I so desired; Thou didst send Thy servant [minister] to visit Thy handmaid.” To lighten our sorrow on her account, she tried to conceal the difficulty of her breathing; forcing herself to smile, she talked of pleasant things, telling us of all that happened to her since her childhood, as if she read from a book. She blessed God from the bottom of her soul for all His mercies. I commenced to tell of how much I suffered when I was exiled for the faith by the Emperor Valent; but she said: “Will you not cease being ungrateful towards God? He rewarded you with His favors more than our parents. They say that you are become known to cities and whole provinces; they summons you and send you to aid the Church. You must know that the prayers of parents elevate one to such a height.” Listening to her, I was sorry to see the day declining towards evening. After the nocturnal prayers and rest, when the morning came, it became clear to me that this morning was the last for the sick one; the fever consumed the remaining strength of the sufferer. My soul was full of sadness, because the tenderness of my sister called forth softness on my part—for her a saint; but, at the same time, I wondered at the ineffable tranquillity with which she awaited the end. The sun was nearly setting, but the happy state of her spirit did not leave her. She stopped speaking to us, and her eyes fixed towards heaven (her poor couch was turned towards the east), she sweetly and softly conversed with the Lord, so that with difficulty we could catch some of the words. “Thou, Lord,” she said, “Thou destroyed for us the fear of death. . . . Thou givest rest to our bodies in sleep of death, and again awakenest them at the sound of the trumpet at the end of ages. . . . Eternal God, to whom I belong from the womb of my mother, whom I love with all my soul, to whom I gave my body and soul—I Grant me a bright angel who would bring me to the holy fathers in the place of freshness and repose. . . . Thou that forgavest one of them that were crucified with Thee, having only recourse to Thy mercy, remember me also in Thy kingdom. May not the spirit-envier prevent me from fleeing to Thee; let all my sins disappear before Thee. Thou that hast the power to forgive sins, forgive the sins of my weakness, and receive my soul as a blessing before Thee! Saying these words, she made the sign of the cross over her mouth, eyes, and heart. . . . It became dark; the candles were brought in; she opened her eyes and began to repeat the Psalms, but her voice failed her, and she continued her prayer mentally. Having finished, she tried to raise her arm, in order to make the sign of the cross,—a deep, heavy sigh came from her breast, and her life ended, together with her prayer. Until now all who surrounded her remained silent, suppressing their emotion; but now there were to be heard wailings, and I myself wept bitterly. . . . But glancing on her that fell asleep, and, as if chided by her

For the disorder, I sent them all out, leaving such of my sister’s fellow workers as were the most intimate. One of them, by name Vestiana, clothing the poor body of Makrina with vestments, called me, and disclosing a part of the breast, while showing with the light of a candle, she said to me: ‘Do you see that hardly visible mark? Once there appeared on that spot a painful swelling, and danger threatened lest the disease should reach the heart. Her mother often begged her to consult medical advice. But she, deeming the baring of any part of the body before a stranger’s eyes more unwholesome than the disease, did not agree to do so. ‘Withdrawing to the church [temple] she remained there all night in prayer, and mingling her prayerful tears with the earth, she put this tearful dust to the sore breast instead of medicaments. And to her mother she said that it would be enough for her if she, her mother, would make with her own hand a sign of the cross over the swelling. Her mother satisfied her desire; the sore disappeared, and here in remembrance of this grace of God— there remained only this mark.’

Vesting the reposed one [Oriental expression—is it not appropriate?], Vestiana found on her neck a small iron cross and ring attached to a cord. ‘Let us divide the inheritance,’ said I; ‘keep for yourself the saving cross, and for me this ring is sufficient, as on its stamp there is the sign of the cross also.’ ‘You did not make a mistake,’ said Vestiana, ‘for in this ring there is a particle of the life-giving wood.’ Tidings of the demise of the revered one brought a multitude of people of all classes to the abode [convent]. So did the bishop of that place come with the clergy. Slowly and with appropriate hymns did we, the ministers of the altar, bear the funeral bier to the Church of the Holy Martyrs; where the body of my sister was laid by the side of our mother’s remains, according to the desire of them both. . . . Once more I prostrated myself before the coffin, and, kissing the remains, in sorrow and tears I left the church.”