On the second day of Christmas

We drove through the grey streets of Sibiu, looking for our guesthouse.  Rain glistened in the glare from the street lamps on the wet roads. We piled from the car, stretching our cramped legs from hours of riding, and headed indoors to our rooms.  After settling in, we met in the common area- Diana and Petter, Cristian and I- with a quandary.  Where do we go to eat, here on the outskirts of town?  We did what any person of our generation would do, pulled out our smart phones and started looking for options. 

Sibiu as seen the next day in the daylight

We were all in agreement that we didn't feel like walking the whole way to the city center in the cold damp night, so we settled on a place just a few blocks away with good reviews.  We walked down the mainly residential street, anything that wasn't a house already shuttered for the night.  When we reached the block where the restaurant we were looking for was, there wasn't a light in sight.  I spotted the door, walked up to it, and even with my rudimentary Romanian skills knew it wasn't good news.  They were closed for the Christmas holidays.

Cell phones back out again, we huddled under a street light, looking for other options.  What would our parents have done a generation ago, we pondered, and then realized the obvious- they would have asked a real live human being at the guesthouse before venturing out in the cold.  And probably would have found out the restaurant was closed before getting there.  Oh well.

There really only seemed to be one place likely to be open nearby, and though none of us were really pleased by the option, we didn't feel like walking the whole way downtown, so we set off down the deserted city streets. The sidewalk came to an abrupt end and we climbed some steps to a grassy section with a path worn into it by all the other people who have come to the same place and decided to keep forging on.  Cars whizzed by beneath me, and as I stepped gingerly, trying not to slip on the icy patches, I imagined slipping off the edge, run over by the oncoming traffic below.  The path we were on veered uphill and we suddenly realized why the sidewalk ended.  We'd reached a railroad that crosses over the road here.  We looked at each other, the road below us (an obvious pedestrian path going under the railroad bridge on the other side of the street), and the tracks.  We decided to risk it.  We scrambled over the tracks, no last minute encounter with an oncoming train to make us regret our decision, and back down the hill to street level. 

There, in the distance, we saw our destination, golden arches beckoning to us to come in out of the cold.  And that, my friends, is how we ended up eating dinner at McDonalds on the second day of Christmas in Romania.  Apparently we weren't the only ones stuck with no choice of open restaurants on a holiday, because the place was packed.  It was, as expected, a mediocre meal (also, they don't put ice in your soda at McDonald's in Romania, and as the only American there, I was the only one who found that really weird. Also, the chicken nuggets tasted different), but hey, we didn't have to walk forever, it was open, and we weren't hungry anymore, and after all, that's the most important thing about food.

The Year of Two Easters

Joy: Panajachel Guatemala

8 am Easter morning.

The church is transformed; white banners, edged in gold, cascading from the ceiling and down the wall, the somber Lenten purple disappearing over night. In the quiet hush, we choose a seat near the back, hoping that our lack of familiarity with the Catholic service goes unnoticed there. We're not there long, however. To our confusion, the priest starts recruiting women to carry the statue of the risen Christ, and everyone starts filing out the door. 

We join the group, wondering over the lack of service and ceremony, and cross the plaza in front of the church to the street.  Realization sets in: "Easter mass and parade" is what the sign said when I stopped in to find the service time.  Apparently the parade is first. The women, representative of those to whom Jesus first appeared, lift the statue of the risen Christ and lead us down the street.  Next comes a dusty pickup truck, crowded with an entire band in the back. The music starts, joyful, celebratory. He is risen! We are saved! Chains are broken!

I'm beaming as I join in the songs, simple choruses that are easy to pick up on the spot. We parade down the street where all the bars and clubs are, dead at this hour on a Sunday morning, passing underneath pineapples, flowers, and other fruit swinging above us, decorating the street for Easter.  We reach the main intersection in town and swing back up toward the church, early morning shoppers stopping to watch, or join in. After our joyful procession through town, we file back into the church for a more traditional service, but I'm brimming with joy.  Can there be a better way to celebrate Easter than singing all through town my joy that my Lord lives?

Reverence: Ramnicu Valcea, Romania

11 pm Easter Saturday

The lawn around the church is already overflowing with people, but we push towards the door, Cristian assuring me there will still be some room inside.  We crowd in the back, standing together.  The lights are off, it's dark, solemn, we're all waiting in expectation, remembering the death of Christ, and anticipating the moment we celebrate His resurrection.

At midnight, the bells start pealing and a single candle is lit.  The light of the world has conquered the darkness.  The priest lights the candles of the other priests and they begin slowly processing out of the church, waving incense, and stopping to sing "Hristos a înviat din morți"- Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and to those in the tombs bestowing life!

I join in the first phrase, since Cristian taught it to me before we came, but my tongue gets lost in the unfamiliar sounds of the next phrases. As the priests get closer, Cristian's mother's caution to be before we left suddenly makes sense. Putting my hair up seemed unnecessary- I'm an adult, I thought- I won't catch my hair on fire with my candle. But now, with everyone pressing in around me, trying to light their candle directly from the priest, I realize it wasn't my own candle I should worry about, but everyone else's. My protestant Christmas Silent Night with candles mental image shatters, as instead we're crammed tight as sardines and lighting candles over one another's heads. I abandon any idea of lighting my candle from the priest- I'll just light it from Cristian instead.

The priests, long robes and beards flowing, leave the church and cross to a platform set up facing the church doors. We all stand on the lawn, candles glowing in the dark, as the priest speaks and Cristian occasionally whispers translations in my ear. Outside there are even more people than were crowded into the church. I'm filled with a sense of reverence and awe. This ceremony seems ancient to me, and I'm sure it is- the Orthodox Church has been around for a millennium.

There's something deeply rewarding about joining in both of these Easter traditions, so different than my own, but both so symbolic of the joy and reverence that the death and resurrection of our Savior should invoke. My faith is bigger than me, than the way I have lived it out, and I feel joined to something larger- the universal Church of all believers. It's another moment where I can almost envision heaven and the beauty of people of every tribe, nation, and tongue coming together to sing praise to the Lamb who is worthy.