Holy Saturday
This morning, Church bells called us around 7am to liturgy. I understand why many prefer the midmorning liturgies that seem to be pretty standard throughout North America, but I've always appriciated an earlier service. There is something incredibly refreshing about the first thing of my day being worship. In our house with a child (and even before she was around), Sunday mornings always seem to have a good deal of waiting around, wishing for breakfast and trying to figure out a way to keep her occupied from first light until it is finally time to go to Church. Here, this is not a problem. We heard the bells, woke the baby and Jake was out the door with Audrey and I following shortly after walking up the street over the olive branches that were covering the ground, in honor of the visiting Bishop.
In a country where Orthodox Christianity makes up 78% of the population, there are few adult baptisms or conversions. Our village service didn't include a baptism, but this was one of the first times when I felt like I was truly following along in the service. We moved from the Old Testament readings to the baptism hymn—the tone was finally recognizable. Just as things seemed to be settling in—wham! The Bishop flew out the doors, the alter servers ripped off the cloths covering the icons and everyone in the church began banging the seats on their chairs. It's hard to describe the little booths with individual seats that cram the churches. The folding seat makes it possible to both sit and stand in the same little place, and the arm rests are at an appropriate height for a Cypriot to lean on. Jake 
and I, being small giants here, are simply awkward in these booths, but up to this point I'd managed to avoid letting the chair portion fall and slam in the middle of the service. At this moment however, as leaves and flowers were flying through the air in the Bishop's race around the narthex, everyone was slamming their seats up and down, a cacophony of clapping wood mixed with the ringing of bells and a shower of firework bombs.
I suppose the church measures something like 20'x80' with a small 20 foot balcony on the second level. This morning, there were nearly 150 people jammed into the space and everyone was rejoicing in Christ's victory in Hades. When it came time for the eucharist, the Bishop presented his sermon while the deacon served from the Chalice. 
The rush of people was so different than our orderly little line at home, but these people were hungry for the gifts. As Audrey and I stood in line, women and men pushed us forward—children go first they said. Audrey opened her mouth and earned a “Bravo” from the deacon. The flood of people spilled into the courtyard and we were greeted in English by several parishioners. Apparently, in the winter, the village shrinks a little, but when families reunite for Pascha and the summer, every Sunday is as packed as this service.
With 12 hours until the Paschal celebration, we headed for the beach and some off road adventuring. Audrey did her best to find fishies in the Mediterranean Sea and I did my best to hold on for dear life while Jake bounced us over rutted dirt roads.
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