Church

The cold air hits me like icy fingers, reaching down my throat. I pull my coat closer around me, but the sleeves are still too short. Cramming my hands in my pockets, I make for the car, keys in hand. The snow crunches under my feet. I climb into the driver’s seat of my mother’s red Windstar and shut the door quickly. It’s still cold. Quickly I stuff the key into the ignition, quickly I turn it. The van starts, but I know that it will take about ten minutes to warm up to the point that warm air ventilates through the car instead of this chilly breeze. I quickly turn the fans off. My little sister jumps into the back seat, neglecting to close the sliding side door. I tell her briskly to close it, shivering. She whines and closes the door, only to have it flung open again by my two brothers. My mom kicks me out of the driver's seat and I climb into the back.
It’s dark, but I can still see a little purple on the horizon through the windows. However, turning back to see it would mean looking at my stupid little sister, so I sacrifice the view to keep myself from arguing with her. I think about confession as I stare out the window, moving uncomfortably in my coat. It’s still cold. Mom seems to be putting on her saintly airs as she drives, telling us to behave in church and griping about how late we are. Maybe she’s right. I prime myself for confession. What else did I do wrong?
The car finally starts to warm up as we pull into the parking lot. I step out, leaving the door open behind me for my other brothers and sister. I hurry up the steps of the church and open the front door carefully. This door has a habit of opening quietly and closing with a bang that would send everyone’s head, from the lowliest monk to the sternest Matushka, spinning around to glare in my direction. I carefully close the door and check to see what part of the service I’ve arrived at. OK, priest outside the royal doors, lights are out. The church is situated so that the faithful stand in the narthex and church, the altar and choir-enclaves are on a raised part of the church. The raised part in front of the royal doors is called the Ambo, while the choir enclave is the Cleros.
Matushka Drovat sits in the corner, her bad leg up on the heater. She smiles warmly to us as we file in. I make my bows, bow to the altar, and hurry across the church to the men's side of the church, slowing as a harsh whisper from Fr. Ignatious comes across the church.
"Shhh!"
Fr. Ignatious directs a long hard stare at my brothers. They shrink into the high necks of their coats and walk slowly to the coat hooks. Taking off my coat, I hang it amongst the others, each hook holding about four coats as usual. I push the collar of my coat over top of the other’s already hung. My sister tries to squeeze between me and the coat hooks, only to stuff her coat under the bench like a lazy slob. After the coats are on the small hooks, we all creep up to the front of the church, being careful to tread on the central carpet runner so that our steps don't echo off of the wood floor. The deacon is calling out the petitions,
"Paki ee paki meerom gospoda pomolimsya."
The choir responds with the usual
"Gospodi Pomeeloi."
I take my place at the end of the line for confession. A small old woman with white hair and a crooked white scarf stands in front of me. I tap her on the shoulder and point to the confession corner inquiringly. She smiles and nods. I smile back and settle into my standing position behind her. The smell of incense and the dim glow of the candles sets an atmosphere perfect for sleeping, but if anyone is ever found dozing off in church, Fr. Ignatious will be at their necks.
I peer over the old woman in front of me to see whether or not Fr. Mark is taking confessions. He’s the Abbot of the monastery, and many of the faithful go to him for confession. On any normal day you can find him in his office, always packing in hours of work for the monastery, and when he isn't working he's either praying, eating, or sleeping.
The Six Psalms begin, one reader in the middle of the church with no lights and no sound other than his ringing voice. I struggle to stand still in line and try to keep my sister from swaying back and forth. She shrugs my hands off of her shoulders and keeps on swinging. I’ll have to talk to Mom about that. Before I know it the Six Psalms are over and the deacon comes out. After the deacon's petitions, the choir begins to sing more of the readings to the saints of the day. Fr. George, the choir director, is quite the man for this job. In addition to teaching in the seminary, Fr. George leads an award winning choir at the monastery. His seminarians travel all over the place, attending choir conferences and seminars in parishes all over the East Coast. When my friend John was a child, he had the misfortune of meeting him when he was in one of his strange Fr. George moods. After introductions, the child John was promptly flipped upside down and shook for change.
The old woman in front of me enters the confession room. The canons have ended and the deacon comes out again to say another Ektenia. The deacon, Fr. Kyril, was only ordained last month, and his chanting is still a little unsteady. He hasn’t quite memorized the petitions well enough to read in the dark. Fr. George whispers cues to him in Russian. He nervously looks over to the choir enclave, then chants on. Fr. Kyril hurriedly leaves the ambo after the last petition. The priest says the concluding prayer. I listen to his voice and conclude that Fr. Theophilact is serving tonight. No bishop’s shroud is on the staff on the ambo, so the Metropolitan must be away at another conference. The Metropolitan is busy trying to reconcile things with the Russian church. His efforts may just bring the American parishes and the Russian cathedrals together. I turn my gaze to the ceiling, listening to the drone of Fr. Theophilact’s chant echoing through the church.
Every surface of the church is covered in ornate paintings, either of the events surrounding the life of Christ or the lives of the saints. Inside the dome on the ceiling, Christ blesses the faithful with two hands. On the left, he is rising from the dead and opening the gates of Hades. On the right Christ weeps at the death of his mother, the Theotokos. When you stand in front of the doors at the front of the church and look towards the back of the church, the wall you see portrays the two paths of all souls: Heaven and Hell. This is to remind the faithful of the Last Judgment as they come back from Holy Communion.
The old woman who was in front of me steps out of the confession room, still beaming. I step into the darkness of the little room. Fr. Mark faces the wall as I venerate the cross and the gospel book on the stand in front of him. I rummage around in my pocket, past the leather wallet and the inhaler chamber in my pocket, trying to find my list of sins. I read my confession off of a little scrap of printer paper and he grunts as each sin reaches his ears. Inwardly I sigh. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for lectures. He prays the Prayer of Absolution over my head, and I venerate the icons again. He gives his blessing and I walk out of the confession room quietly.
Slowly I walk towards the back of the church. Taking my place, I glance up towards the front of the church. Fr. Ignatious is berating a small boy for laughing too loudly. He stands behind the boy and holds him by the shoulders. Judging from the boy’s squirming, I guessed that he was holding him pretty tightly. Good old Fr. Ignatious. He is the translator for the English prayer books sold by the monastery printing press. I think that he finds some sort of strange pleasure in making the text particularly difficult both to read and to understand. He seems to enjoy his job as disciplinarian in church, as is apparent by the still squirming boy in front of him.
The Kathismas begin, a part in the service in which everyone either sits down or leaves the church to grab a drink at the well. I grab my coat and head towards the doors. Matushka Drovat is still sitting there, reading the service with her leg still up. She smiles as I cross myself at the doors, carrying out the traditional church -leaving reverences.
It’s still cold outside, and my breath catches in my lungs. It’s going to be a long night.

Nature's Kisses

We walk onward, carefully, cautiously. I follow our young leader, conscious of the path she takes. Brother behind, I feel an intoxicating rush as we pass under the canopy of trees, single file. Maybe it's the smell, the feel of the earth beneath my feet. I begin to sprint through the foliage. But it's not sprinting. It's a hurdling skip, something that entails a wolf's bound, a horse's gallop, and the deer's agile leap. Each passing branch, bush, and twig leaves it's rough kisses on my arms and fae. They are mother nature's blessing, leaving her mark and asking me to return to this paradise. They are a reminder, not a pain, not a scar, as it may seem. A reminder that I must cure my softness by visiting again, that her kisses may cure and clean me.