Ch 6: What Happened in Greece
I just assumed that the spiritual pilgrim in me would be sitting this one out.
In April 2006, God had revealed that the time to sell our convenience store was approaching… perhaps another year, I recorded in my spiritual journal.
But I pushed that out of my mind as family events took priority. First Son graduated from high school. Second Son graduated from middle school at the same time. There was the usual busyness of getting a child off to college.
And then, in his second semester, First Son decided to transfer. He kept me busy helping with those applications. And before he would start at the new school, he wanted to do a semester overseas. As a Latin/Classics major who had already been to Italy, Greece was the obvious choice. More applications ensued.
[Editor's Note: This article is Chapter 6 in my serialized memoir “Well Guided: My Life as a Student at the International Academy of God,” in which I share some of the many ways God has had a hand in my life. Access previous chapters via the Table of Contents.]
Fear of Lightning
A year and a summer after hearing perhaps another year, we still owned the store. It was time to put First Son on a plane to Athens, to pursue his studies there. The following week, a friend suggested I take the opportunity to visit him. I was an archaeology geek after all. When else would I get the chance to see places I had always dreamed of, and to visit with both boys?
Husband wouldn’t be able to go, in case lightning hit our satellite dish — a real danger that had happened twice before. The worst part was that Husband was the only one who could navigate the complexities of getting all twenty of the fueling stations talking to the cash registers again. If a strike were to happen when he wasn’t around, we’d be out of business until he returned, and then some.
In fact, in eight-and-a-half years of running the store, we’d never been out of town as a family for more than two days. Except once, when we drove three hours to Stone Mountain for a long weekend. That was during a brief time when we had been able to hire reasonable managers for both first and second shifts. And before we’d lived through a lightning strike.
Actually, in all those years, we’d never been more than five hours away as a family. With one exception. In March 2006, the weekend of my father’s memorial service in Pittsburgh, Husband drove all day that Friday to get us there by evening.
The next morning, I helped set up the video of photos I had made. Pastor Vicki got the boys busy with polishing the 18” brass cross Dad (a metal worker by trade) had made for the congregation in the 60s, so it would look nice for the service.
Sitting in the first pew with my stepmother, Grammy Lois, we had a few bittersweet moments of fun listening to friends reminisce about Pappa, followed by a home-cooked lunch in the fellowship hall. We hugged goodbye to people we hadn’t seen in decades and would likely never see in person again. Then the four of us drove across town to Homewood Cemetery to see where Pappa’s ashes would be buried. Eventually, just not that day.
After grabbing some Pittsburgh comfort food — chipped ham and Sarris chocolate — at the Giant Eagle in Squirrel Hill, we were on our way out of town before dinner. Husband drove straight home, and we were back in our beds by 1:30 am Sunday morning.
So, in the Fall of 2007, to suggest that Husband and I could be on another continent for an entire week, a holiday week no less, was simply unimaginable.
Greece’s Unexpected Treasures
Second Son and I flew to Greece the Saturday before Thanksgiving. As we soon discovered, that’s a great time to nab a flight to Europe. Americans are busy running to Grandma’s house, and hardly anyone is leaving the country.
Second Son and I were on our own that Saturday night and most of Sunday. First Son’s class had been on a weekend field trip until Sunday evening. We made plans to meet up early Monday morning before classes began again.
After a quick walk up the street, we met First Son at the ticket booth for admission to the Acropolis. The morning was crisp, cool, and sunny. It was a perfect Miss Congeniality date… not too hot, not too cold, all we needed was a light jacket.
We found ourselves among the day’s first visitors to start the long winding trek up the southern path to the top. At last, after a lifetime of seeing pictures of the steep, seemingly insurmountable cliff, I was now privy to the details of how someone actually gets up there. Some parts were so steep, my kids had to literally push and pull me up the path.
I was primed to see the Parthenon, the Erechtheion, and all the other wonders “up top” on the Acropolis. As a life-long student of archaeology, I reveled in the ruins, the artifacts, and the ancient symbolism. I was a scientist, on a mission to see the evidence of the past for myself. I was a mom, enjoying one son as a tour guide and the other as a traveling companion. I just assumed that the spiritual pilgrim in me would be sitting this one out.
So, it came as a total surprise when, descending the gently sloping northwest side of the Acropolis, First Son pointed out a tiny ancient church, the Church of the Holy Apostles, just off the path. “The oldest Christian church in Athens,” he informed me. “Want to go in?”
We walked to the far side of the building, to the open front door, and saw the church was empty, except for one tour guide at a table just inside. “Yassou!” he greeted her as we walked past on our way to the chancel.
I entered the surprisingly small space with the same expectations I would have on entering any other ancient building. The conversation immediately turned to the partially intact painted icons on the ceiling, the cruciform architecture, and the floor’s mosaic pattern.
I chatted in a normal voice, just as I would at any other ancient venue, when suddenly First Son chastised me in a hushed voice. “Mom, not so loud! This is a church!” He glanced toward the guide, who was too busy with the next visitor to notice my indiscretion.
I immediately fell silent and started praying.
In that Sacred Space
Just as immediately, I felt something I had felt only twice before in my life. The Holy Spirit, the very presence of God, fell on me, just as it had the other times, only this time it fell quickly, suddenly. Unexpectedly. It was as if someone had just plopped a folded-up quilt on my head and shoulders. Phwop! Not so much weight that it was painful, but enough so that the experience was undeniable. Nothing else in my experience feels like this.
By beginning to pray, I had opened a door. I had invited God in for a visit. And the Spirit made God’s presence known.
I believe God is everywhere, in and through all things. God is not limited to a temple or a church or any other place. Yet somehow, the Spirit does seem more concentrated in places designed for worship. Let’s just say that every time I have felt the Spirit’s presence, it has been in a church.
Maybe we're just more receptive when we feel ourselves to be in sacred space.
Whatever the explanation, the Spirit hit me hard that day in Greece.
Suddenly, I felt at one with all the generations of Christians who had worshiped there over the centuries. I knew without a doubt that I was standing on holy ground.
As my sons and I turned to leave through the open door, that feeling subsided. I felt a shift as the weight lifted, like a quilt noiselessly falling to the floor. I forced my eyes wide open to keep welled-up tears from falling. I could have dabbed them with the tissue in my pocket, but I didn’t want to call attention to what had happened.
Had my children seen? If they had, they didn’t comment. “That’s Mom for you,” they would have thought. As we exited, I smiled and nodded at the guide. Maybe she saw and understood. She would have seen all kinds of pilgrims enter this ancient place. Did others look like they had been smitten?
Moments like this, where I truly feel the Spirit in such a tangible way, are few and far between. Once they are over, I simply have to go back through the door into my regular human life. And yet I am forever changed. God is undeniably with me, and I know God has a plan for me.
What I didn’t know then was that God had a really big change in mind for our family.
Looking back now, it seems like God was equipping me for what was coming just around the corner.
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