This year was our first year toting a kid to church for the whirlwind that is Orthodox Easter, or Pascha. Holy Week was daunting; services every night from 7pm on, and activities during the day in preparation for Pascha that kept us running around crazy!
Holy Thursday
In the evening we listen to the twelve gospels. Kneeling gets harder every year; I think giving birth has changed my joints forever. Creaky. By the ninth gospel, Ruthie is beside herself, unable to fall back asleep after being woken up. Strange place, strange time, no comfort. I bail out and leave Stephen to listen to the last three. Maybe next year.
Holy Friday
After yesterday's conversation with
Our cross dons a black scarf, wrapped solemnly, surrounded by the palms & greenery of Palm Sunday. Stephen brings home flowers that evening from the funeral bier, which I added to the bouquet in the kitchen.
My parents arrive that afternoon. They're visiting Ruthie and celebrating with us. Dad helps me braid the kulich (recipe here). Mom helps me dye red eggs--red like the blood of Christ--but they come out a little pinkish and all over my hands. Blood on my hands.
...
In the evening we lament. Dirges for Christ. Chanting and soft prayers. Candles are lit, and we process with the bier outside. Cars pass by, wondering what's going on. Don't you know that Christ is dead? I think, as I watch a man gab on his cell phone at the traffic light outside.
Holy Saturday
We make quiche and macaroni pie. We nap in the afternoon. We feed Ruthie and chat. Mom and Dad watch Ruthie gladly while I run errands. We watch a Marx Brothers movie and fade in and out of consciousness. Everyone has a book to read. Dad feeds Ruthie, and Mom adores her.
In anticipation of Christ trampling down death by death, I string a few short popcorn and cranberry strands. I had never made them before, and though I know they're associated with Christmas, I tell myself that they're most excellently festive. Even more appropriate, perhaps, when you think about how surprising popcorn's -POP- can be, and how surprised hell was when it took a body, and encountered God.
I could be stretching that just a little bit.
Pascha
Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life.
It's 2 AM, and the line for communion is forming. Ruth has been sleeping soundly through the entire ruckus. Out of the corner of my eye I've seen the blanket covering her car seat move a little--kicking in her sleep.
Gently, I pick her up, cradled and swaddled. She barely moves. The choir sings, "Let God arise, let his enemies be scattered," and I gently try to wake her. The spoon comes to her mouth from the chalice, and she slurps, bleary and bewildered. I too, partake, bleary and bewildered, feeling woozy from the time of night and the faintness of fasting.
We return to our places, and she returns to sleep. The chandelier swings.
...
It's 4 AM. Champagne and cheese are taking a toll on my stomach. Steve downs some Uzo. I congratulate choir members. "Well done!" We giggle and cheer when Ho introduces his brother as his son. Khouria tells a story of an angelic visitor during the Friday vigil. Father thanks everyone for all their hard work. Chris passes around the legendary Pascha Lasanga for sharing. Bread makes its rounds. Chocolate all around. Food all around.
We collapse at 4:30 in our beds, birds singing.
...
Later that day, we circle up again. It's a reprise of Forgiveness Vespers, only instead of asking each others' forgiveness, this time we announce Christ's victory over death. "Christ is risen! Indeed He is risen!" we say to each other. It's jovial and engaging all around. Bellies full, hearts full, making the Devil angry.
Bright Monday
My parents leave before liturgy. A small tearful goodbye after I jump, damp, out of the shower. Back to church. Again.
Afterwards, we feast. Again. Cal grills our meat, and Stephen fries chicken wings. Lily, originally from Buffalo, has her special sauce. The wings come into the parish hall in big juicy piles. People swarm them like vultures, and later you see them licking their lips, stained orange with the juices.
By this time I can feel the greasiness of animal oozing out of my pores. A shock to my system. Being vegan isn't so hard; it's going back to eating all that protien that's the tough part. But I love this part of Orthodoxy; we live sacramental eating. There are chances everywhere to make the crevices of our lives into tiny gifts for God.
Bright Tuesday
Still reeling from Pascha. Groggy and oddly out of it. Ruthie slept well, but I feel like I've landed in England--jet-lagged in a foreign land. Things seem funny, my vision feels skewed. I feel resentful of my daily tasks and ongoing work that takes me away from church, from thinking about the Most Important Thing.
How terrible it is that I so easily forget it.
Read some of the texts of the Orthodox liturgical services here.
