Saints reveal themselves in marvelous ways, and in the Fall of 2004, while in Patras, Greece, researching an interview on St. Andrew’s journeys, Road to Emmaus staff had coffee with Mrs. Smaragda Pavlou, a Patras native, whose surprising Pascha story was a highlight of their visit. Hesitant at first to have the story recorded, at the urging of her spiritual father, Smaragda agreed:
It was Great Thursday, 1939, and my sister Photini and I were young girls. Great Thursday was the day we dyed our Pascha eggs, and we had saved many eggs during the fast. Patras was not crowded in those days; we had land behind our house for chickens, and that year we had a new young hen among our brood. On the morning of Great Thursday, she laid her first egg and immediately died. We were very surprised and felt great pity for her, so we took the egg and included it with the others we were dying red for Pascha. On Great Saturday, the eggs were blessed in church, the parish of St. Dionysios on Astings Street, and after the Pascha liturgy, one egg was selected to be put into the icon corner as a blessing for the year. That Pascha we chose the egg from the little hen that had died, and set it in the icon case. A few months later, on the morning of November 10, for no obvious reason, the egg fell from the icon case and broke with a loud crack. Amidst the fragments of the shell, we found a tiny black wax-like oval medallion, with a figure in a phelonion and omophorion with the Holy Gospel in his hand [typical of an icon of a Bishop], and the name “Agios Milos” [Saint Milos] etched around the figure in capital letters. On the opposite side, without words, was the familiar image of St. Stylianos, holding an infant [feast day on November 26]. It seemed to us that the dried up contents of the egg had shaped themselves into an Icon-Not-Made-By-Hands. I asked everyone I knew who St. Milos was, but no one had ever heard of him, not even the priest. Everyone in our family saw this wonderful icon from the egg. We knew that St. Milos had come to us, and we all prayed to him. For a whole year afterwards, people came to our home to venerate the tiny icon; our house became like a public shrine. Then, Greece was invaded.
It was Great Thursday, 1939, and my sister Photini and I were young girls. Great Thursday was the day we dyed our Pascha eggs, and we had saved many eggs during the fast. Patras was not crowded in those days; we had land behind our house for chickens, and that year we had a new young hen among our brood. On the morning of Great Thursday, she laid her first egg and immediately died. We were very surprised and felt great pity for her, so we took the egg and included it with the others we were dying red for Pascha. On Great Saturday, the eggs were blessed in church, the parish of St. Dionysios on Astings Street, and after the Pascha liturgy, one egg was selected to be put into the icon corner as a blessing for the year. That Pascha we chose the egg from the little hen that had died, and set it in the icon case. A few months later, on the morning of November 10, for no obvious reason, the egg fell from the icon case and broke with a loud crack. Amidst the fragments of the shell, we found a tiny black wax-like oval medallion, with a figure in a phelonion and omophorion with the Holy Gospel in his hand [typical of an icon of a Bishop], and the name “Agios Milos” [Saint Milos] etched around the figure in capital letters. On the opposite side, without words, was the familiar image of St. Stylianos, holding an infant [feast day on November 26]. It seemed to us that the dried up contents of the egg had shaped themselves into an Icon-Not-Made-By-Hands. I asked everyone I knew who St. Milos was, but no one had ever heard of him, not even the priest. Everyone in our family saw this wonderful icon from the egg. We knew that St. Milos had come to us, and we all prayed to him. For a whole year afterwards, people came to our home to venerate the tiny icon; our house became like a public shrine. Then, Greece was invaded.


















