Holy Week

I’ll admit it, I have a hate/hate relationship with Easter. I believe I only tolerated it as a child because bunnies are cute and I could satisfy my propensity for fierce competition in the Easter egg hunt. I never appreciated waking up to go to church at five a.m., and I most definitely hated the frilly, itchy, pastel Easter dresses my mother bought for me. And who the hell thought it was a good idea to put small children in tights? Such a thing begs for little girls to embarrass their parents by pulling their dresses over their heads in a vain attempt to adjust the uncomfortable hosiery. Too bad we can’t get away with that as adults.

Once I got old enough, I could excuse myself from the early morning services. My parents still spoiled me with a beautiful, filled to the brim Easter basket, but by the time I was a teenager Easter lost all meaning for me. When my best friend died on a lugubrious Easter Sunday fifteen years ago, I parted ways with the now somber holiday forever, or so I thought.

I was never ignorant of the religious implications of Easter while growing up. After I got over my childhood trauma of seeing a lonely Jesus sent to be crucified by a maddening crowd in Jesus of Nazareth, I pretty much ignored any theological connotations of the holiday. As I began to garner some grasp of reality I found it harder and harder to accept many things Christianity tried to tell me, and of all these things, I found the whole resurrection deal particularly difficult to accept. Oh me of little faith.

Then I married a Greek Orthodox.

I’ll admit I was blind to the vagaries of the Orthodox religion coming into this thing. I knew they needed proof of my baptism to get married in the Orthodox Church. I knew they had different “rules” for calculating when Easter would be celebrated. I knew their priests wore kick ass hats. I knew parts of religious services were sung. I did not, however, know that Easter, and more specifically the crucifixion and resurrection, was one of the doctrinal threads holding this religion together. I did not know that Easter was a huge deal in Greece, bigger even than Christmas. I did not know that every year, for weeks before Easter, I would be reminded of the religious importance of the holiday to come, a holiday I tried to forget, a holiday that seemed to mock the loss of someone I had loved.

The first year I was here we were too busy planning the wedding to celebrate Easter. The second year I was here we were on Kos and my husband was working so I avoided it again. Last year my husband had a shift and I got lucky again. This year, however, he is off and we are living in the same city as the family. It isn’t looking too good for me now.

At least the service is at midnight on Saturday and not some ungodly morning hour. The fast breaking soup we’ll have after the service is pretty good, the family company is pleasant, so I suppose I’ll survive. And I am told the Easter service is particularly replete with the singing/chanting, which I actually quite enjoy.

I know I am too bitter about Easter. I wouldn’t have been this bitter if it wasn’t a holiday of resurrection, rebirth, rejuvenation. If it had been a more chthonic holiday I perhaps could have accepted it. If I had more faith, if I could give myself over to religion, then I might find forgiveness and acceptance. But I don’t, and I can’t, so I won’t. My hope is that someday I will see things differently, but for now I shall simply endure, relish the sonorous Orthodox chants, and revel in the love of the family around me.