Tbilisi is filled with centuries-old churches spread out over the mountains like solemn warriors, but that day we decided to find a new and little-known one. Gabriel Urgebadze (or Mama Gabrieli, as Georgians call him), beloved Georgian saint of 20th century, built it several decades ago in his own yard.
Late in the evening my friends and I made our way to the outskirts of Tbilisi. The narrow street we took led us to industrial suburbs with no people around. In the company of barking dogs we wandered the empty streets, but it was too early to give up: the spirit of adventure took hold of us. As we turned to a bigger street, my friend’s phone logged into the local Wi-Fi network called Tbilisi loves you. And we all believed it!
Suddenly one of us noticed a figure in a long black robe standing on the bus stop. He looked like a monk – someone who might help us find Mama Gabrieli’s place! Dark empty streets, mysterious strangers. Just like in Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita, I thought. But the spell disappeared when I addressed the monk and saw his smiling face: he was on his way back from elder Gabriel’s house. Monk Jacob (that was his name) told us that the saint’s elderly sister who currently lived in the house did not let people in the church. Some pilgrims would steal the saint’s things!
The house was hiding by the tall gate, the dog barking protectively. Monk Jacob disappeared in the dark arch. There was no way the good lady would let us in at such a late hour, and yet the monk returned with a happy smile: she said it was ok to come in. The gate was separating an isle of domesticity from the grim city slightly lit by yellowish lights. Mother and son welcomed us as they were having late dinner in the yard; balm crickets were joyfully singing. Behind a bush we saw a tiny blue house decorated with stones in a touching childish manner.
As we were standing by the church, monk Jacob told us the story of the man who built it. At the time of Soviet atheism Mama Gabrieli collected all the icons he could find in the city dumpsters and brought them to the new church. The authorities destroyed it many times, but the elder would rebuild it time and again. I felt a touch of history hiding in the city streets, making them alive.
The bus that local elders told us about a week ago (and we ignored it) arrived. We said good-bye to monk Jacob on the same bus stop we met him, and despite my expectations, he did not dissolve into thin air, but remained waiting for his bus.
