Guided by Grandma with Grace

On Sundays, if I was at my grandparents’, I would accompany my grandma Nicolina to the small Greek Orthodox church in the village.

The mass would start early, at 8 am, and last until 10 am. Afterward, we would always linger a bit more, because my grandma met acquaintances and shared the latest gossip. I remember I felt so hungry on those mornings because we weren’t supposed to eat anything until we received the communion at 10 am, holy bread cubes, and holy water sips.

This wood and clay church was special, as it was filled with colorful icons, with hints of gold here and there. There were huge paintings that covered the walls, a bit scratched off by time. But that was the beauty of it as if someone had gone with a broom over the walls to clean cobwebs and left such scratches. Only nobody would clean the walls, of course, and no spiders would shelter inside the wooden church, because it was usually a very cold place.

The pictures on the walls gave me a magical feeling as if I was told exactly the stories from the Bible, the ones I read in my children’s Bible at night. The illustrations from my dogeared book seemed to come alive through the detailed art in the church. I could imagine the stories even better. I grew up with those stories. I always preferred the ones in the Old Testament.

During mass, I often didn’t understand the hymns and chants. They were sung in an old dialect, but still, the melodies were soothing at times. Sometimes the low notes made it all sound so serious, even if sung by the old priest with kind, small eyes.

The choir made up of old ladies with their head covered by black scarves, sang with long voices, full of grace. I would close my eyes and wish to also sing in a choir of kids in the same small church. It was a dream, but it was a way to imagine I belonged there. Otherwise, I often felt like an explorer of stories, with grace flowing around me, taking me high on its wings of faith and chanting.

If we were lucky, I could get a chair to sit on, but often the church was full and only the elders got a chair. I always noticed older people in the church looking at me, scanning my clothes, and approving that I was quiet. They knew I was Grandma Nicolina’s youngest niece. I felt special and accepted. This sense of belonging and feeling part of the community played a big part in my feeling of grace back in the day.

Sunday church mornings were always special, even if boring for a small child like me. I felt drawn by the energy in the church. Thinking back now, I believe I could feel my ancestors’ love filling my heart with peace and innocent wonder.

I still remember, like in a haze, the icons and paintings on the church walls, the low-sung hymns, and my grandma with a scarf on her head and a serious figure. Perhaps the actual feeling of grace was inspired and taught to me by my grandma through her actions and gentle manner. I will always remember her.

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Here is the Nonfiction May Prompts on Simple Story Seekers. I chose the following prompt:

3. Write about how you first experienced grace in your childhood.

Tell a simple story about how you first learned about grace. Can you recall the person or event that made you first experience the emotion of grace? Please try to remember and share your thoughts. What did you learn from the experience?

***I originally published this story on Medium.***

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