She slept! She slept! I think we've finally conquered jet lag 'round these parts and it is glorious. Thursday's weather, on the other hand, was cold and gray but that didn't stop us. Now that we've got sleeping down, we can do anything. Once the rain cleared, we were invited to watch several different village women bake the traditional Easter breads in large outdoor ovens. Apparently, I took around 400 photos as we tried to document the centuries old tradition of making flaunas and other Paschal pastries.

At one house, Audrey learned her first bit of Greek—flauna and ya-ya, as two women showed her how to roll dough with a stick, then stuff it with cheese and raisins. The breads go into a stone oven, that is first heated with a wood fire. Once the insides of the oven turn white, it is hot enough to bake. Jake kept trying to find out how hot the oven was in Centigrade, but the answer was always the same—when it gets white, we clean the coals out and wash down every surface. They used a rag on a stick, dunking it in water and brushing the surface until it was ready for the doughy loaves. To make sure the oven was just right, a woman would throw in a handful of flour. If it turned black, it was too hot. Once the handful of flour roasted to a golden brown, they'd clean the oven again and quickly slide in all the breads on what looked like a pizza board. The oven was then closed up, and they checked on the bread in 20 minutes. If the color was good, they left the oven door off for a little while to let the oven cool, then sealed it up and let it bake for an hour. Besides the flaunas, there were meat pies and eggs wrapped in bread, all waiting to for Sunday.

Back in our little home, Audrey took a nap and I made dinner before heading off to the nearby village of Goudy for the Passion Gospels service. We went to the Church where the Romanian priest Jake met yesterday served. I let Audrey burn off energy during the first bit of the service and watched her run from giant colored egg to egg in the square outside. At least once a day, she wants to see the big Easter eggs that decorate every town and while she doesn't particularly like car rides, if she knows we're going to find eggs, she's game for anything. After playing with the eggs that were taller than she was, she asked to go back into the Church, as long as her little stuffed froggie could come.

One of the things that initially drew me to Orthodoxy was the Church's use of language. I loved the richness of the chants that burrow their way into a person's consciousness and the way that even the texts that make up the service are filled with language that both challenges and calls to a person, forcing focus but also allowing meditation. When I had a child, my ability to focus on the words of any given service was severely diminished. Last night, it didn't matter that the service was in Greek, my attention, like so many of the other mothers' there, was split between participating in the service and encouraging Audrey to do the same, or at least keep her from preventing those around us from hearing the readings.

I may have not heard or understood much of the words, but as soon as Christ was lifted onto the cross, tears filled my eyes. Language may have drawn me to the Church, but the visual power of the icons continue to bring me to my knees. In that little Church, the women around me doted on my little girl, offering her their keys and books, and encouraging me as I am still learning the balance between worship and parenting, and occasionally realizing that the two are often the same.