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This year, too, we made it to Saint Paisius, not far from the hustle and bustle of Thessaloniki, on the hill of joy, as I like to call it. How can I put it? My heart is beating faster even now, with joy, just thinking about it.
Outside, 30+ degrees. Scorching heat. The only time of day the monastery is open to pilgrims. We arrived shortly after the gates opened. And there, in 30+ degree heat, in the scorching sun of late June, people were standing in an endless queue to venerate the tomb of Saint Paisius.
Leave it to me! I told my husband, over my shoulder, already quickening my pace towards the nun, stooped with age, who was directing the queue. She instantly motioned for me to turn back. The nun was stooped, but not blind! I tried explaining in English how things were: that we had a small child, that we couldn't keep him in the sun, that it was too hot... The nun was unyielding. Oh, oh! Meaning: no, no!And she motioned towards the end of the queue. I returned to my child and husband with my tail between my legs. And what were we to do; we're not going to stand in this queue, are we?! And what of it, Saint Paisius is here anyway, it still counts as venerating, you don't necessarily have to touch the tomb to... But first, let's taste a piece of rose loukoumi (Turkish delight) and go into the church to pray. Then we sat with the child, somewhere in the shade, in a corner, admiring the sky, savoring the tranquility behind the church.
And, just as we were about to leave, we both glanced at the queue (which seemed even longer), and what were we to do? We devoured another piece of the traditional sweet dessertand pink with which the Saint used to spoil pilgrims, and we got in line. I emphasize: in the new queue. Meaning a longer one than the endless one that was there when we arrived.
It was as if only then I saw that there were more children than adults here. Parents with 3, 4, 5 children. Parents with infants. Pregnant women. Priests. And they all stood in line. In the scorching heat. At 30+ degrees. That's when I felt my face flush. Not from the heat. From shame. From shame that I wanted to solve somehow, differently, a natural given: that of standing in line. Ashamed of my thoughts. Ashamed of my lack of humility. Ashamed of my impatience. Of my huffing and puffing. Of the fact that I thought having a child in your arms automatically places you from the back of the line to the very front. And so I understood the saying I used to hear from the elders in my village when I was a child: that it's very good in life to know your place. Even if it's sometimes at the end of the line. Even if this line sometimes seems endless. With patience, and with a few sacrifices, eventually, everyone reaches the front. Where joy awaits them. For us, this time, the joy was reconnecting with a beloved Saint-friend. And how great is the joy when you see your friends become your child's friends…
Why is it good that we stood in line? It's good for the lessons we received: that not everything is owed to us; that patience must be honed; that, when you go to a place other than your home, you must respect the rules of that place; that sometimes grumbling lengthens the wait; that the Saints do what they can to keep us near them for as long as possible, under the same sky, hoping that perhaps something good will rub off on us too… and the list can go on indefinitely. Anyway, I think my husband will continue to make fun of me by recommending me to friends: If you ever have to stand in a queue, ask Silvana – she knows a method that makes you stand longer!
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I finished writing, with the child in my arms and my fingers sticky from sugar, still smelling of rose.
P.S. The last person to venerate with us that day was a monk. He queued up behind us and kept his eyes in a prayer book the entire time in line. He didn't seem upset at all about being last. What lesson did he learn, I wonder?
Silvana Bașa