Nice Article from the Old Rite Kellion of the Holy Trinity and St. Sergius

The original page can be viewed here. I have been enjoying learning about the Old Rite lately, though be honest I still don't have a great deal of sympathy for the Old Believer schism. (Edit: Looks like the image they were using on the site has been taken down. If posting it here had anything to do with it my apologies! Of course I am not sure how it could have but who knows.)

The icon corner: a little sanctuary in a noisy world.

I enter through the front door into the first room of the house and there, in the corner,housed in a large carved cabinet are the holy icons. This is the krasny ugolok, the beautiful corner, where Christ, the Mother of God and the saints look down from their icons. I pray and make the customary bows before the icons.

God be merciful to me a sinner.

Thou hast created me, have mercy upon me.

I have sinned immeasurably, Lord have mercy and forgive me a sinner.

As I make the sign of the cross upon myself I look into the eyes of the icon of the Lord: deep eyes with an unearthly gaze intense eyes stern but also loving. Then as I say the hymn to the Mother of God I turn to her icon. The peace of God radiates from her eyes: the peace that only one totally filled with the Holy Spirit can have or know. It is truly meet to bless Thee, Who didst bring forth God. Ever blessed and most pure and the Mother of our God.There, standing against the breast of the Heavenly Mother is that God, the Christchild, the Son of God and God the Son.More honourable than the cherubim, and truly more glorious than the seraphim, Thou, who without corruption didst bare God the Word. True Mother of God, we magnify Thee. As I make the prostration, the velvet of the little podruchnik mat feels soft under my head and hands.I complete the prayers and step forward to kiss the cross. With a scratch and a hiss a match lights the row of beeswax candles, standing on a tall candlestick before the icon corner. The flames flicker and light the faces of the Lord, Our Lady and the saints - the closest of the friends of God, raised up in every generation. They look down on me: St John the Forerunner, St John the Theologian, St Mary of Egypt, the Holy chiefs of the Apostles Peter and Paul, St Nikola, St Panteleimon, and a newer martyr - our Holy Father Avvakum, burnt alive for his defence of the old ways of Russian Orthodoxy. In the green stillness of their egg-tempera icons my beloved fathers St Sergei of Radonezh, St Kyrill of Belozersk, St Nil Sorsky and St Maxim the Greek -great souls, who preached and shaped the faith and spirituality of Holy Russia - are now in a little house in Wales, far from the Russian forests. I ask them to bless this little house, this town, and this land. All of these holy men and women are not only the friends of God; they are my friends. In his mercy, the Lord has used these men and women to help, guide and teach the world. Death was no obstacle, and they have continued to work miracles: evidence of the love of God in the centuries since they passed from earth to heaven. In my morning and evening prayers I greet these saints and ask for their help. Standing before them I am never alone. I am part of the Church of God. I worship with the saints and they worship with me. In worship, the whole Church, both earthly and heavenly unites, and something of heaven is brought to this little icon corner and this house. Trying not to burn my fingers I light a round of charcoal and place it in the brass censer with incense. As I make the sign of the cross before the icons, smoke curls up, filling the room with sweet fragrance and here hidden away behind the façade of a very average cottage, not only the saints, but also the creation of God the beeswax from the beehives in far off Russia, the essence of flowers in the incense from distant Arabia, the charcoal from our own native trees all unite in worship. What a wonderful thought. I walk around the room, passing the little table where the prayer-books and supplies sit, past the mantelpiece where more icons line the wall, past the chest of drawers on which a blackened old triptych fitted with brass icons stands, past the door and back to the icon corner. What joys and sorrows have accompanied these icons? How many souls have prayed before them, wept before them, smiled before them, kissed them, carried them in processions and carried them into exile?

Grant rest O Lord to Thy faithful servants.

I take up my prayer book and my woven leather lestovka, the old Russian prayer rope. In my prayers this icon corner becomes my temple. I forget where this house stands; it is of little significance. I remember the word of the Cherubic hymn let us lay aside all worldly cares. I stand before God and he sees me as I am - every fault, every weakness - and yet I know that I stand before a loving God who is here really present in my home. This little sanctuary never lets me forget this. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done ... here in this little house, in this street, in this town and this land.