Triantafyllia had a burning desire within her—to find Symeon, to fall at his feet, and to ask his forgiveness. But how and where could she find him? She expressed her fiery longing to the monk before her.
“I want to see my husband, Symeon! I want to fall at his feet, ask him to forgive me, and let me die at that very moment. I know he will forgive me! But where can I find this holy man? I ask every monk who comes from elsewhere. I ask and ask again if, by chance, he has heard of or seen my husband! My Father, you who have come from far away, have you perhaps seen my husband? He was tall, handsome, humble, and always serious. Have you ever met such a monk?”
His face became all the more pale, upsetting Triantafyllia.
“Tell me, what do you know about Symeon? I will run and find him and ask him to forgive me and let me die at that very moment!”
It seemed that Symeon knew something. He started to weep.
“Tell me, tell me, where is Symeon? Where have you seen him? Even if it is getting dark, at this very moment I will go and find him, as far away as he may be! Tell me!”
“I am Symeon!” His voice was choked with emotion.
“My God…!” Triantafyllia managed to say, falling down, almost passing out, in front of his skeletal legs. She opened her eyes and looked around in confusion.
“Is that really you, Symeon? Where are you, Symeon?” she repeated over and over again.
…
“Forgive me, holy man, for what I have done to you, just as Christ forgave His crucifiers! Forgive me, forgive me!”
“My Triantafyllia, I forgave you from the very first day. I did not allow even the slightest evil against you to take root in my heart. I have never scorned you as an adulteress, because I know how weak we are, and how easily we are deceived by temptation, falling into sin. But I also now forgive you from my heart!”
The sun outside was sinking toward the west. Darkness was slowly making its appearance; it was inundating the church.
Triantafyllia started to tremble. She fell on the stone floor of the chapel. Symeon lifted her up, but the trembling persisted. She asked Symeon to spend the night at his father’s home, down in Bathyrema.
Something was telling Symeon that Triantafyllia was near the end of her life. Her fiery desire to find Symeon, to seek his forgiveness, and to die at that very moment appeared to be about to be fulfilled. He would descend with her to his father’s home.
Twenty years had passed since he left his town forever and went to become a monk. He was 24 years old then (now he was 44), and Triantafyllia was a young woman of 17 (now 37). His mental state was becoming even more troubled, as he had Triantafyllia by his side and had the premonition that he was going to bury her.
Triantafyllia supported herself on his skeletal arm, and they descended very slowly. He brought her to the empty home of the late Fr. Andreas. He laid her on the bed. She leaned into the arms of Symeon and at once gave up her soul.
The death of Triantafyllia made Symeon feel an even deeper sense of the vanity of “our short life, which swiftly passes away” (Job 9:25). In this atmosphere he continued his ascetic struggles in his monastery.
In early April 1594, he was in Constantinople. His skeletal body could not endure any longer, and a few days later he peacefully gave up his spirit.
His memory is commemorated by the Church on April 19.
(Main source: Our book titled: A Monk’s Adventure: The Life of St. Symeon the Barefooted. Archangels Publications, July 2023.)
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