I am on page 810 of The Brothers Karamazov, deep in the mystery of who killed Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov. I have watched Ivan and Dmitri unravel. I have watched Lise’s soul turn inward and give way to depravity. I have watched her mother fall prey to flattery from a young and deceitful man.
And I cannot help but miss Zosima.
I wish he were still there to speak into the foolishness unfolding on every page. To name it plainly. To meet it with love. His absence is felt now more than ever. And so the mantle must be passed. I find myself waiting, almost anxiously, for Alyosha to step into that role. The one who sees people for who they are and chooses to love them anyway.
As I age, I feel that same mantle being passed to my generation. We are being asked to lead, to guide, to steady the younger ones behind us. But just like in this book, there is so much foolishness, selfishness, and thoughtlessness in our world. Who will pass down the traditions, the wisdom, the moral clarity? Who will carry the ethics that were learned slowly, painfully, over a lifetime?
Does that scare you?
It scares me.
We need Madeas and Memes. We need older women who have lived long enough to know that the nonsense does not work. Women who know that justice, prudence, fortitude, faith, hope, love, and temperance are not outdated ideals but guiding principles, tried and true. And yet, it seems very few are signing up to be the wise owl.
Who will be the grounding presence for the younger generation? Who will be the home they return to for patience, listening, and a pot of beef stew simmering on the stove?
Our world demands so much of us. Keep going. Avoid aging. Keep striving. Keep climbing. Slow living feels almost rebellious now. Who has the margin to stop and give themselves to the next generation?
In the fictional Russian world Dostoevsky created, someone must speak with love and gentleness, truth and wisdom, in a landscape thick with lies and deceit. And so it is with our world. Someone must step forward. Someone must guide the young. Someone must be willing to exit the race long enough to listen.
I miss Zosima. I miss the peace he brought to the story, especially now as everything I once thought was good reveals its distorted nature in the Karamazov family and those tied to them.
I miss my grandmother too, and the way my young mind understood her gestures of love. But longing is not enough. At some point, the role changes.
Now it is time for me to be Mary Blunt.
And for Alyosha to become Zosima.
If this post spoke to you…
Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
|
Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
Don’t Miss a Post
Stories of faith, motherhood, and becoming—delivered straight to your inbox.
Leave a Reply