Passing By - by Helen Kretzmann
There was an elderly Indian couple from India that used to take their daily walks from the apartments, across our parking lot and into the open space across the road. I used to see them often, she always dressed in her beautiful saris. One day, they rung the doorbell and asked to come in. The woman was holding a huge bunch of flowers. They said that every day when they woke up, they would look out onto our church, and thought it was beautiful. They had been in the USA for a number of months visiting their daughter. They were now going back to India, and they needed to make an offering, and pray for a safe journey home. Could they come into our church, and leave the flowers as an offering to God, to protect them on their voyage? I was a little taken aback – I mean, all the Indians I have ever met from India have been Hindu. Making an offering of flowers conjured up images of exotic Indian temples with shoes laying outside, and flowers and fruits and other delicacies lying before the Hindu Gods as offerings. And then I thought, well, that I supposed God was Universal, and how nice it was that this couple thought that behind the different cultures and languages and colors and names, God is God, and we can pray to Him anywhere, in anyplace. God is everywhere, and He is true in India and true in America and to all people, even if we call him by different names, and depict Him in different fashions. This was a very pleasing and comforting thought.
So, they went into the Sanctuary, and put their flowers down, and said their prayers, and when I saw them again afterwards, we commiserated about having to travel so far and so long and so expensively to visit our families. And we all agreed that if one was going to spend so much money and go so far, that one really did have to stay for many weeks to make it worth while.
On a different day, the doorbell rang, and an elderly man stood outside and asked to come in. He said he was from Bulgaria, and he couldn’t speak English very well. He said that he was visiting, and he had just had a new grandchild born, and he wanted to come in and light a candle and ‘debate’. I figured that the word ‘debate’ meant pray, in some quirky mistranslation of a wonderful Bulgarian word, but then I thought that ‘debate’ was kind of a good word, to use when you want to have a back-and-forth with God or your favorite Saint. So, I didn’t correct him, and let him in, and he said his prayers and lit his candle. When he was done, he came out and bought an icon, and a card, presumably for his daughter who had just had the baby, and he seemed happy and satisfied that all was well, and proud to be a new grandfather.
The last passerby I want to tell you about was a florist. She came by during those horrible winter storms we had at the beginning of the year, to deliver some flowers for one of the many funerals we had during those cold and bleak and icy weeks. As I opened the door to let her in, the icy wind just blasted her through the door, and I helped her carry the floral arrangements in. I had an armful, and she had an armful, and I had to open the doors to the sanctuary with my elbows and feet. I was right behind her as we walked in, and I bumped right into her, as she suddenly stopped in her tracks. “The smell”, she said. “Yes”, I said, ”the flowers do smell beautiful. ” (thinking, Oh great, all I need now is a poetic florist). “No”, she said. “Not the flowers, the Church. The Church. I remember the smell”. “Oh”, I said, ”you mean the incense?” Then she said, ”I haven’t been into an Orthodox church since I was a little girl. My mother was Orthodox, you know.” “Well, you can come back, “ I said, “We never forget what our Mothers taught us.” “I know. My husband isn’t Orthodox”. “Mine isn’t, either, “ I said, “But he comes. You can bring him, you know”. “We live in Parker,” she said. “That’s Ok,” I said, “Lots of our parishioners live in Parker.” And then we went forward and laid the flowers down, and she thanked me for all the help, and we spent a few minutes commiserating about having non-orthodox husbands, and she drove away. I hope she comes back.
So, the point of all these stories? They remind me of my Father’s little hometown village in Greece, where we spent so many summers when we were kids. In the mornings, my grandmother would press some coins into my hand and send me on the errand to buy the daily bread. I would take the beach road there, turn up the alley to the bakery, and take the cobblestone high road back. In between my great Aunt Sotiria’s house, and my great Aunt Panayota’s house, the road ran right at the base of the mountain. There was a cave there, that had been converted into a little chapel, or shrine. The whole of the inside was whitewashed with lime, and rudimentary shelves had been hewn out of the rock walls and whitewashed. The shelves were all covered with people’s personal icons, and in front of each one, was a Kandili burning. The door was always open, and I would often just walk in, find St. Helen and Constantine, and make sure they were OK, and light a candle, do my cross, and go on. Lots of people would just stop by on their daily rounds – walk in, say a prayer, light a candle, leave a small offering, make sure their Kandili was still burning, and go on about their daily business. And so it should be.
Perhaps we should all try to make it part of our daily business to stop by and make sure we are alright with God. In between errands, pass by St. Catherine’s. Light a candle. Say a prayer. Leave an offering. Then carry on about our day with a glad heart, like we did when we were children and did these things innocently and spontaneously without a second thought.
By Helen Kretzmann