Imbiswillow memories




memories
kulich and pashka
a poem

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My father used to sing in a choir.
I don't mean the boyschoir he sang in in his youth, when my grandmother was in church in full amazement about the wonderful performance of a young boy, only to discover later that my dad was the boy. My gram had 7 children, and in the war there was no money to pay the fee to take part in the choir. But my dad helped out in church, and in exchange he was permitted to sing with the choir.

Later he took part in all sorts of choirs, some he directed too.
The last choir he gave his heart to was a byzantine choir.
They sang on one of the most beautiful churches in the country ( see here) and instead of following the orthodox european ritus, they followed the orthodox russian ritus.
So we heard a lot of russian during the time he had to learn all the songs. And he had to learn them all, as he was the assistant conductor not only for all the different men's voices, but also for the women voices.
I didn't mind though.
The music is a kind of meditative melodeous and learning another language and culture is always interesting.

The festivities of easter were the most important of the religeous year.
Days before we would start preparations.
Not only by getting our voices in perfect condition, but also by backing special bread and colouring eggs.
We would take them to church, as other people did too
and they would be exposed in front of the altar.
After the service people had the chance to take something of all the wonderful gifts with them, like in the other churches where wealthy people share their bread, eggs and other food with the poor.





One of the reasons I went to the church my father sang and not to the church in our neighbourhood was that there were many special moments adding to the total feel of awe for the greatness of being.

At easter we would bring our gifts of bread and eggs to a special door at the side of the church and after that we would assemble on the square in front of the church.
Sometimes we were far too early and took a walk in the dark woods (it was nearly midnight), emerging ourselves into the silence and darkness of night. Getting close to ourselves.
Then we walked back to the lights of the candles people held in their hands.
The church was completely dark. Symbolising the death of Christ.

The church is on top of a hill. Often the wind made us feel cold and the waiting made us shiver and curl our hands around the candles.

Then the priest arrived.
Three times he knocked on the doors, to ask where Christ had gone.

By that time everybody was completely silent, standing close together to escape from the cold.

Suddenly the large doors of the church were opened and a voice would call: "Christ is arisen!".
The priest took over and told us all three times that Christ was arisen and then the choir started singing very silent, getting louder and louder.
The went into the dark church and all would follow in a long line. Singing and carrying the candles.

Only after the last person had entered the church and the choir had sung a happy song, the candles in the church were lit and the other lights were switched on.

The celebration of easter marked the true beginning of life.
While songs and prayers went on, the dark of the night faded into the first light of day, and during times of silence the first birds could be heard.
Promises of a new day, promisses of spring, of new life.
The hours (up till 2 or 3 hours) seemed to be no time, and when the priest finally gave us his last blessing, we felt refreshed and ready to face life in it's full meaning.

In a strange way people were able to shed their shyness and everybody would drink and eat from the wonderful gifts and wish each other a happy easter.



My father doesn't live anymore and we live too far away from that church to attend a service, but the memories stay in my mind and the songs still linger on, as do the words, spoken at easter:


Hrestoss vosskrese ez mertvih,
smerteeyou smert po prav,
Ee suscheem vo grobeh zhivot darovav.




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