the essay

Traitors, Pharisees.
My great-great-grandmother was the one who eradicated peasant illiteracy at the age of 16.
She could barely read or write.

Oh, she was a stunning beauty. A black braid down to her heels, gray eyes, a nose like an eagle's.
She had eighteen children, but only two survived.
(Eighteen? She must have lied to me.)

But she knew ditties like: "Jesus Christ—he hanged himself on the cross."
And Elijah the Prophet—he got wet on the stove.
But she kept a half-burnt icon of Christ without its frame all her life. Her faith was unfeigned.
Surprise, Jesus wasn't a Christian.
I still have that thing.

Well, I really didn't like that priest who didn't buy my house for next to nothing.
I don't think such a car is consistent with the rank and abilities of those who lean on the Faith. He said he needed a house with more than five windows on the front because "there are a lot of them."
Really?
I only made it in the rain and into the night because I was following the headlights of a trucker driving straight ahead. I like drivers who stay in the lane. I hope he's okay.

My great-great-grandmother, a little girl alone, lost her way in a field during a snowstorm. But she heard bells, and some man driving a horse and sleigh appeared and put her in the sleigh, otherwise she would have died there.
(That couldn't have happened; a horse and sleigh wouldn't make it through deep snow in a blizzard; she must have lied to me.)

I came up with everything in this wonderful essay after listening to this Orthodox pseudo-convert's stream about what he considers piety.
Magnificent, isn't it?