40 Days of Easter-Day One
I have been working on a project. My goal was to complete 40 Easter reflections by (American) Easter Sunday, which is today. I was going to print a beautiful booklet and sell it as a fundraiser for Petalouda House, our family's project to provide homes, support, and healing to people who need a place to stay for a short or long-term basis.
And then, the work of Petalouda House became overwhelming, and I didn't have the time or energy to nurture myself by writing.
But, I am back at it now. On this Easter Sunday for Christians in most of the world, this Palm Sunday for the Orthodox, I am going to begin posting these reflections here for the next 40 days. (For all you Orthodox, I'll add another seven days at the end--or you can start reading a week later!)
If anyone wishes to make a donation as a token of gratitude, we would appreciate it. More details about donating and our goals are at the bottom of this post.
Here is reflection number one!
First Day of Easter: Shell
Have you ever trudged out to the barn to collect eggs on a cold day? The shell, still warm from the hen’s nesting, rests easily in the palm of your hand. Brown, milky white, or sporting a faint shade of blue, the hard shell is just hard enough to protect what is inside, but also fragile.
Crack an egg on a sidewalk in Phoenix in the middle of the summer: fried egg. Leave a dozen out on the back stoop in the midst of a frigid Midwest winter: spoiled egg. Eggs are totally dependent on hens to guard them to infancy, and on human hands to make them into food. They are easily transformed by the elements around them.
We are fascinated by fragility. Water balloon and snowball fights are based on the premise that what we hold in our hands will puncture or unravel when it hits a hard surface. We make a game of that sudden loosening. But we are also afraid of disentanglement, afraid when we begin to lose our hair or teeth in old age, when our relationships shift, even in positive directions.
In the Greek Orthodox tradition, at the end of a long midnight liturgy that usually ends at two or three a.m., parishioners stand in line to kiss the priest’s hand as he offers a red egg. Red, the color of blood. Red, a reminder of the suffering that led to this day of resurrection. Red, the color of love.
In the narthex, weary worshipers greet one another joyfully with “Christos Anesti,” which means, “Christ is Risen!” They hold out their red eggs and make a game of cracking them against each other’s until there is a winner—the one with the last egg intact wins.
One Easter Sunday, I walked out of the sanctuary to a mass of people enacting this ritual. Grandfathers cracked their eggs against their grandchildren’s, laughingly celebrating their victories; young married couples aggressively slammed their eggs into each other’s; children wove through the narthex in search of a friend whose egg they could crack.
I felt my heart open—such joy and revelry!—and then I felt it pinch itself in pain. I was in Minnesota, alone, for the first time at Easter. I didn’t know anyone at this church, three hours away from the small town where I had recently settled for a new job. This was the closest Orthodox Church, and I had traveled on a whim because I couldn’t bear to miss the Easter liturgy. My eyes welled up with tears.
And then, completely nonchalantly, a middle aged man approached me, smiled broadly, and, before I knew what was happening, slammed his egg into mine. Mine cracked. We both laughed. “I win,” he said. “Christos Anesti.”
“Alithos Anesti,” I responded.
Christ is Risen. Truly He is Risen.
Back at my hotel, I peeled the egg—the first dairy I’d had in a week, because I still observe the Greek Orthodox fast—and savored every bite. I thought about what the crack in my egg meant—crack of welcome, crack of opening, crack of memory, crack of ritual, crack of vulnerability. I thought about why I had left Phoenix—an unhealthy relationship, a low paying job with no possibility for advancement, a desert-hot climate I had loved at first but had begun to find oppressive. I thought, too, about the thin crack in the shell of my egg.
Sometimes we have to cradle what is most fragile to carry it to safety. Sometimes, though, we have to crack open if we want to become who we were meant to be.
Easter is all about recognizing our own fragility, and then letting that fragility crack open—the tomb, the egg, the heart held close during the long, contemplative days of Lent.
Christos Anesti. Christ is Risen.
Making a donation to Petalouda House:
We want to make this clear up front: your donation is not yet tax deductable. We are not sure yet whether our project will become a non-profit or continue to be a labor of love as it is now. We have ongoing needs--basic needs like clothing, food, work uniforms, lessons, etc. for those who live or will live with us--but we also have some larger goals. Our next goal is to make improvements to the property that will ensure that the foundation is sound (this will involve hauling a lot of dirt this summer!). Also, we hope to make one of our entrances disability accessible. The much more long-term goal is to finish an apartment over the garage so we can provide housing for a family or transitional and more independent housing to adults who live or will live with us. Finally, we currently only have one very old working vehicle. We will need a second, newer vehicle soon.
You can make a donation by sending a check made out to Argie Manolis or Tara Gromatka to 411 E. 4th St., Morris, MN 56267, with Petalouda House in the memo line, or transferring money via PayPal to argiemanolis@gmail.com.
Here is reflection number one: Christ is Risen! Happy Easter!
And then, the work of Petalouda House became overwhelming, and I didn't have the time or energy to nurture myself by writing.
But, I am back at it now. On this Easter Sunday for Christians in most of the world, this Palm Sunday for the Orthodox, I am going to begin posting these reflections here for the next 40 days. (For all you Orthodox, I'll add another seven days at the end--or you can start reading a week later!)
If anyone wishes to make a donation as a token of gratitude, we would appreciate it. More details about donating and our goals are at the bottom of this post.
Here is reflection number one!
First Day of Easter: Shell
Have you ever trudged out to the barn to collect eggs on a cold day? The shell, still warm from the hen’s nesting, rests easily in the palm of your hand. Brown, milky white, or sporting a faint shade of blue, the hard shell is just hard enough to protect what is inside, but also fragile.
Crack an egg on a sidewalk in Phoenix in the middle of the summer: fried egg. Leave a dozen out on the back stoop in the midst of a frigid Midwest winter: spoiled egg. Eggs are totally dependent on hens to guard them to infancy, and on human hands to make them into food. They are easily transformed by the elements around them.
We are fascinated by fragility. Water balloon and snowball fights are based on the premise that what we hold in our hands will puncture or unravel when it hits a hard surface. We make a game of that sudden loosening. But we are also afraid of disentanglement, afraid when we begin to lose our hair or teeth in old age, when our relationships shift, even in positive directions.
In the Greek Orthodox tradition, at the end of a long midnight liturgy that usually ends at two or three a.m., parishioners stand in line to kiss the priest’s hand as he offers a red egg. Red, the color of blood. Red, a reminder of the suffering that led to this day of resurrection. Red, the color of love.
In the narthex, weary worshipers greet one another joyfully with “Christos Anesti,” which means, “Christ is Risen!” They hold out their red eggs and make a game of cracking them against each other’s until there is a winner—the one with the last egg intact wins.
One Easter Sunday, I walked out of the sanctuary to a mass of people enacting this ritual. Grandfathers cracked their eggs against their grandchildren’s, laughingly celebrating their victories; young married couples aggressively slammed their eggs into each other’s; children wove through the narthex in search of a friend whose egg they could crack.
I felt my heart open—such joy and revelry!—and then I felt it pinch itself in pain. I was in Minnesota, alone, for the first time at Easter. I didn’t know anyone at this church, three hours away from the small town where I had recently settled for a new job. This was the closest Orthodox Church, and I had traveled on a whim because I couldn’t bear to miss the Easter liturgy. My eyes welled up with tears.
And then, completely nonchalantly, a middle aged man approached me, smiled broadly, and, before I knew what was happening, slammed his egg into mine. Mine cracked. We both laughed. “I win,” he said. “Christos Anesti.”
“Alithos Anesti,” I responded.
Christ is Risen. Truly He is Risen.
Back at my hotel, I peeled the egg—the first dairy I’d had in a week, because I still observe the Greek Orthodox fast—and savored every bite. I thought about what the crack in my egg meant—crack of welcome, crack of opening, crack of memory, crack of ritual, crack of vulnerability. I thought about why I had left Phoenix—an unhealthy relationship, a low paying job with no possibility for advancement, a desert-hot climate I had loved at first but had begun to find oppressive. I thought, too, about the thin crack in the shell of my egg.
Sometimes we have to cradle what is most fragile to carry it to safety. Sometimes, though, we have to crack open if we want to become who we were meant to be.
Easter is all about recognizing our own fragility, and then letting that fragility crack open—the tomb, the egg, the heart held close during the long, contemplative days of Lent.
Christos Anesti. Christ is Risen.
Making a donation to Petalouda House:
We want to make this clear up front: your donation is not yet tax deductable. We are not sure yet whether our project will become a non-profit or continue to be a labor of love as it is now. We have ongoing needs--basic needs like clothing, food, work uniforms, lessons, etc. for those who live or will live with us--but we also have some larger goals. Our next goal is to make improvements to the property that will ensure that the foundation is sound (this will involve hauling a lot of dirt this summer!). Also, we hope to make one of our entrances disability accessible. The much more long-term goal is to finish an apartment over the garage so we can provide housing for a family or transitional and more independent housing to adults who live or will live with us. Finally, we currently only have one very old working vehicle. We will need a second, newer vehicle soon.
You can make a donation by sending a check made out to Argie Manolis or Tara Gromatka to 411 E. 4th St., Morris, MN 56267, with Petalouda House in the memo line, or transferring money via PayPal to argiemanolis@gmail.com.
Here is reflection number one: Christ is Risen! Happy Easter!
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