When I was a child, I attended St. Catherine and St. Demetrios Greek Orthodox Schools in Astoria, Queens. We had two classes in the Greek language every day: one in grammar and reading, and the other in Greek history and religion. From kindergarten to eighth grade the lens and identity of being Greek Orthodox was a significant part of my classical education. As I age, I realize the great impact that this education and community has had on my life and experiences.
I did not grow up in the church, but there was religion at school. The children went to confession twice a year to prepare to receive communion during school-wide liturgies. I remember enjoying the service, sitting in a pew, hearing a small bell that meant I had to stand up, then sitting again. The carpet at St. Catherine’s Church was bright red in my memories. I looked forward to the powdery donuts that we were given after liturgy, as we had fasted from breakfast on those days.
In sixth grade Mrs. Efstathiadou became passionate in our Greek class one day. She raised her index finger above her head and admonished us. “Your ancestors died in slavery to preserve the Greek language and religion. You must pass on your culture, language and religion to your children, or your ancestors died in vain.” I absorbed each of her words into the cells of my body. When I became a mother, I decided to raise my son in the Eastern Orthodox Church.
I have friends and family members who eschew religion. Some people have been harmed by their churches and by religious authorities. We live in a secular society, and many are isolated. We are disconnected from each other and prefer to associate with people who believe exactly what we believe politically. Where are the communities and support systems for our children in these times?
I spoke with my friend Daniela about the way that we were raised in immigrant families and communities. She went to Catholic school and attended church with her Italian immigrant family in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Daniela says that church was good for her as a child, though she didn’t realize it at the time. She spent time with family and had a community to support her as she grew up.
I sing in the choir of an Eastern Orthodox Church and drive over a half an hour to get to services and be a part of this community. I bring my teenage child to church. We participate in the sacraments of confession, eucharist and holy unction. Is this something old fashioned and outdated? A way of life for my grandparents’ generation?
In the village of Kalamoti on the island of Chios, one of my paternal great-grandfathers would awaken in the night when someone banged on his door. He kept the keys to the church of Saint Kyriaki which was near his house, and unlocked the temple for travelers, sojourners, and the bereft who wanted to pray and light candles in the dark of the night. His daughter, my grandmother Despina, whom I am named after, was very religious. Dressed in black from head to toe, this woman who was under five feet tall, hunched over from picking mastic for decades, prayed day and night. People went to her for a blessing in a village outside Argos on the mainland where she was displaced, living with her daughter after my grandfather died in the 80s, for decades. She used to say, “I am not for this world.” Δεν είμαι για αυτόν τον κόσμο.
When I stand in church in the dark of evening services, I feel my ancestors who sang and chanted these very hymns. Church is a connection through time between the living and the dead, between one woman in 2026 in Colorado and generations of ancestors who were enslaved under the Ottoman Empire for 400 years. My great-grandmothers struggled to feed their children, buried their own mothers and sons, miscarried their babies, prayed, endured the occupation of the Italians, and then the Germans. They survived the Great Hunger. I do not stand alone in this world. I am their daughter, and I remember them.
I choose to give my son the gift of Eastern Orthodoxy as I honor my family, my great-grandfather and grandmother. I sing with tears in my eyes, remembering my loved ones, my history, and saints who prayed and healed the sick. Saint Anthimos Vagianos of Chios, was my other paternal grandfather’s first cousin and a healer. It comforts me to know that he prays for my family. I remember my daughter Mary Rose who lived for one hour, along with my grandmothers and grandfathers and friends who are no longer living.
I give my son a community with the steady guidance of our beloved priest on how to become a man in the anxiety of our world, because he needs more than his two parents and teachers to guide him. My son has been told by his father confessor that being a man means sacrificing yourself for the good of others. This is not a value of our post-modern, post-covid society, yet giving up a little time to help someone else is a good thing. I want my child to be kind and giving.
I often think that if something happens to me, my family will not be alone, but will have the support of a parish. Our priest says that the church is a hospital for the sick. Our hearts have been broken open with wounds and grief throughout the decades of our lives. We gather together and mend ourselves in the Light of Christ and the community of our church.
I offer my son this inheritance. When I die, I will leave him love and mercy.