Holy Thursday
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.
Venturing Out – Holy Wednesday
Several Disney films later, a cloudy dawn made an appearance with Church bells soon following. My husband, the hero that he is, took Audrey with him to the presanctified Liturgy and left me to get a shower (!) and some needed work done. He returned with a sleeping girl in his arms who woke up ready to hit the ground running.
Spring in Cyprus means a regular exchange between sun and rain, roasting heat and misty cool. Today was one of those cool days, so I fired up our little oven to roast vegetable and do the double duty of heating our flat's marble floors enclosed by two foot thick stone walls. Filled with the bounty of the early spring harvest, we loaded our crew into a small Mitsubishi SUV and made our way down the steepest paved road in Cyprus.
On the advice of our hosts, Jake had plotted a course for Pachyammos and the Church of Saint Raphael, where many miracles of healing have been reported.
Situated perhaps 200 meters from the sea, the Church is newly built to honor saints whose deaths had not been known until they appeared to many of the faithful in visions. Today, it's stone walls act as a buffer against the whipping wind and we walk through the courtyard covered with bits of melted wax into the quiet dimness of the holy place. Every surface is either painted or intricately carved and we follow the story of the three patron saint's martyrdom by the Turks on the ceiling. We are not far from a small enclave of occupied territory and I can't imagine how it must feel to worship in a place dedicated to those who were so recently tortured for their faith.
Instead of driving back down the coast, we play adventurers and drive cross country, winding our way through the Trodos mountains. When I say winding, I'm not simply playing with language, the narrow, one -lane road doubled back and back and back upon itself. At the price of a few queasy stomachs, we were afforded vistas out of Jurassic Park, just with goats and wild sheep instead of dinosaurs. The shear cliffs dropped to hills covered in pinion pines and cedars and yellow, blue and pale pink flowers blanketed every open nook. As we climbed, the soil shifted from the burnt sienna color I never used in the crayon box to a chalky gray and then we were descending again.
We stopped in Polis so Jake could meet Father Joseph from Goudy, a Romanian priest who spoke better English than most people we've met. Apparently, there is a shortage of priests here and so many Romanians are serving in the Churches and making Cyprus their home.
Back in Droushia, I was determined to break the ugly cycle of time zone induced sleeplessness, so Jake went off to the Unction service and I put Audrey to bed at her normal bedtime back home. Check out his podcast to hear his reflections on that service and our day of adventures.
Looking Inside – Holy Tuesday
With the basics of travel now on their way to being sorted out, we spent Tuesday configuring Internet access, sipping coffee alongside a cobblestone street, and visiting the small Church of St. Nicholas in the old part of Polis, the nearest big town. There are some things I really love about travel and hot coffee with no where in particular to be has got to be near the top of my list. Speaking of food, it's neat to be in a place where there is a direct connection to regional and seasonal fare and the corresponding prices in the market. We stocked our little kitchen with all sorts of goodies but it was shocking to pay nearly 3 Euro for a small carton of soy milk and only 63 cents for a big deli container of olives. I know we shouldn't have been surprised that the hummus was a quarter of the price of what I pay at home, but I'm thrilled to have artichokes and olives and all the lovely Mediterranean food actually be less expensive than some packaged alternative.
Leaving Grandma with a sleeping toddler, that evening Jake and I attended the Bridegroom Matins service at St. Andrew's Church in Polis—the painted one he had toured on Monday. While there is something beautiful about worshiping in the little Church in our village of Droushia, this was certainly awe inspiring. Surrounded by icons from floor to ceiling, we listened to not only beautiful chanting, but an entire congregation who sang out the hymns by heart.
So much is assumed about the faithful in Orthodox countries, especially by us converts who have little to no connection with those who have been practicing their faith in this way since birth. No matter what sweeping generalizations or unfortunate stereotypes may have plagued our perception, it was clear that this Church was filled with people who love God deeply. When it came time to sing about the treachery of Judas, despite the language barrier, I could hear the contempt held for the betrayer in the near shouts that echoed through the room. Yet, when it came time to beg that we would not fall into his sin, all around the Church you could see people whispering these words too, meaning every prayer.
We left the service and walked across the street to the supermarket (really super, not just in name) and picked up several extra packets of red dye. I'm looking forward to dyeing eggs on Thursday with Audrey for the first time. She's been entranced by the Pascha decorations popping up all over the place and is a big fan of the giant colored eggs that adorn various buildings. I know this will be one of the wonderfully practical and theologically rich activities that translates so well for small children. That, and the fact she gets to play with generally fragile things AND make a paint-related mess at the same time.
Holy Monday
How naive we were to think that jet lag would be easier on a little person than us! Yesterday (Monday) was spent looking for sleep at all the wrong hours with a few mini adventures thrown in. We made a morning exploration into the village, assuring Audrey that we were looking for the feral kitty she'd spotted the night before. Our base camp seems to be pretty well near the center of the village, and we pushed the stroller (buggy, pushchair, pram—we learned all the possible English terms when dealing with airport staff) up the windy, narrow roads. Clinging to the stone walls that flank the street, we avoided major traffic (2 cars in ½ hour) and managed to snap a few photos. We found a supermarket, defined as such by having more than eight aisles, and picked up the real genesis of our expedition—a pack of olives and some fresh bread. As we passed through the center of town, we waved to several people, a couple of stone workers, an old man, and headed for higher ground. The village is situated at about 800 meters above sea level and even though the day wasn't perfectly clear, we smiled at the sight of the Mediterranean Sea framed by the thousands of yellow flowers every single tourist website about Cypress had mentioned.
Later, Jake and his mom and sister headed to a larger town to exchange money and deal with the rental car business. He had the chance to take a tour of one of Cyprus' beautiful painted churches-the Church of St. Andrew in Polis- and venerate some relics. (See Photo Gallery)
After a dinner made from pasta, fresh tomatoes and the remaining olives from our morning shopping, we responded to the call of Church bells and walked up the street. We entered from the side, walking in on chanting. Audrey is two years old and when she enters a Church, she makes the sign of the cross like a mime trying to wave away bees. After lighting candles and venerating the icons, our little family split up. Jake stayed near the front with the rest of the men and I joined the ya-yas near the back. Before we left, a friend had bade me to expect men and women to stand on opposite sides of the church, but the construction of this narrow building meant that instead of being split right to left, there was more front/back differentiation. I cringed accordingly when Audrey's little voice warranted shushing from the nearby women and then rejoiced when she quickly fell asleep in my arms.
We brought along a Greek/English Holy Week services book, so we would be able to follow along with the service. Last night, when Jake went to the service alone, he said he was often more lost than not with the book, so I embraced the waves of Greek washing through the church, incomprehensible, yet so often familiar as the service followed a pattern that is taking hold in my heart and mind as I spend more time in the Church. My prayers, while sometimes matching with a recognizable “Kyrie Elieson,” thanked God for the small triumphs of the day—a very long nap while Grandma snuggled my daughter, bountiful cups of coffee and the opportunity to share in the traditions that the women around me have been celebrating for anywhere between 20 and 90 years.
Our night ended with Jake in the bedroom and me snuggled on a futon with a toddler who just learned how to climb out of her crib. After our first full night of sleep in 4 of 5 days, all of us are finally rested and ready to explore the surrounding area and respond again when the Church bells call us to continue our preparations for Pascha.
