The first light of a new day flowed through the small window I was sitting next to on my transatlantic flight to Athens. Eight months had passed since I last spoke to my son Nick. Behind me I left a grieving family still trying to make sense of their loss. Ahead of me was a son who despite his human failings and weaknesses, loved God more than anyone or anything in the world--more than the life we helped shape him for, more than his automobile, more than the school he attended, more than his family. What was I going to say when I got to the monastery? How would he receive me? What would I find there? The questions swirled around in my head.
Since our trip to Mt. Athos I had wrestled with my son's decision, trying to reconcile my faith with my doubts. Was I, even now, still endevearing to replace God with myself in his affections. Immersed in my worldliness, had I forgotten that the Lord Jesus Christ calls all of His followers to separate themselves from the world?
ὁ Ἰησοῦς εἶπεν τοῖς μαθηταῖς αὐτοῦ· Εἴ τις θέλει ὀπίσω μου ἐλθεῖν, ἀπαρνησάσθω ἑαυτὸν καὶ ἀράτω τὸν σταυρὸν αὐτοῦ καὶ ἀκολουθείτω μοι. (Then said Jesus to his disciples, If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me.)
This is the clarion call of Monasticism.
Eight long months had passed and except for a visit from his yiayia and uncle to the monastery, there had been no contact with Niko. He had spent an entire winter at the monastery high up in the mountains under arduous and austere conditions. If he was having second thoughts, now would be the time to find out. If I succeeded in bringing him home, would I be making my child unhappy or if I failed, would my family be able to heal the hurt they felt at losing him? We felt estranged from Niko's life and my wife Anna, deeply mourned the son she had been so close to and the grandchildren she would not have. As parents we had spent a good portion of our lives supporting our two precious sons, emotionally and financially, and preparing them to be successful in the world. Now after all these years of effort and anxiety, one of them wanted no part of it. He had left the seminary one year short of earning his bachelor's degree. In so doing, rejecting the world and the life that we envisioned for him. Every member of his extended family lived with the gnawing feeling that he was rejecting us as well. Had we failed him?
The lack of communication in particular had a devastating effect on all of us. We blamed everyone for our predicament, especially ourselves. Niko had become the main topic of conversation. We all wanted to understand, why did he do this? We said he was avoiding responsibility, his spiritual father was making all his decisions, he was running away instead of working to improve society, he was egocentric and selfish, he was dividing and ruining our family, not to mention condemning himself to a life of misery and insecurity. It ate away at us. His brother Chris, especially felt unloved and cast aside by his brother though he kept his disappointment well hidden.
We wanted him to conform to the world, to do what everybody else does, yet he had chosen another path. The path he had chosen however, brought into sharp focus our own attachment to the world. An attachment that, in fact, runs contrary to our Orthodox faith. It is a faith that requires us to surrender our ego, to become other-wordly. Even those who live in the world, who have children and hold jobs, are required to keep themselves in some sense apart from the world. There can be no compromise. God was confronting us with this uncomfortable truth. The world is not and cannot be our home. Whether we choose to marry Christ or an earthly spouse, we can in no sense marry the world. Orthodoxy teaches that children are not the possession of their mothers and fathers: they are not playthings of their parents' imaginations. Children are given by God for a time that they may be raised up in the knowledge of Him, and after that He summons them as He will. The duty of parents is not to prepare children to settle comfortably in the world, but to shepherd their souls, to prepare them to battle against the fallen anti-Christian world we live in.
As my plane touched down at Eleftherios Venizelos airport I was thinking about the journey my grandfather had started over a hundred years ago when he arrived in America. We had come full circle as a family now that his great grandson had returned to live in Greece. Now a new generation was to experience the loss and separation of children living far away. Greece was in the throes of economic crisis. The heady days of unbridled spending and easy living had collapsed like a house of cards. Athens now reflected the difficult times Greeks were living in; it was somber, decaying, cold and gray. My brother-in-law Thano picked me up at the airport and drove me to the humble little walk up apartment my mother-in-law Maria had spent her entire adult life in. She was visibly happy to see me and we hugged each other. Maria was the only parent I had left in the world and I valued her wise counsel. Always one to take care of her children, the table was laid out with food to welcome us. The photos of her family are ever present and surround her. Her youngest brother of had died of cancer two months ago, his photo joining those of her older brother and husband on a small table. She had aged, dressed as she was in the black clothing of mourning. No stranger to adversity, a child of the German occupation and subsequent civil war, she had known poverty and starvation. I could sense that she deeply felt her daughter's pain but was stoic, even in the face of another family crisis.
The next day, I walked to Thano's new apartment a few blocks from his mother's home to see his family. It was a sunny day and we decided to take his two year old son to the park. For a short period, I was able to experience once again the happiness of a young child at play. We laughed at his antics with the other children there. He reminded me of my own children at that age in what was now a very distant time and place that I could only return to in my fading memory. Thano and I left early the following morning for the monastery, a three hour trip north. Along the way we bantered back and forth, sometimes talking about Nick but mostly about other subjects. It was apparent that the things were bleak in Greece and bound to get worse. Thano considered himself one of the lucky ones, he still had a good paying job in the private sector. Listening to him, however, I could tell that he was uneasy about his job, his wife's job and the future his son was heir to. The snow capped peaks on our route up were in sharp contrast with the greenery in the valleys beginning to sprout up everywhere. It was the middle of Lent, a time of spiritual renewal and rebirth, as was the beginning of Spring, now upon us, the tumultuous times notwithstanding.
As we began to veer off the main highway toward the winding road that made its way through the mountains, the talking stopped. The butterflies in my stomach fluttered uncontrollably as I said a silent prayer. The morning Orthos service was still going on when we pulled up. Thano lit a cigarette and stretched his legs while I walked into the four hundred year old Church through the short front doorway, bending over as I entered in humility. I lit a candle, kissed the icons and entered a packed church. Only a few rays of light coming through the small narrow windows lit its dark interior. There were a number of pilgrims and I strained to get a glimpse of my son. Our eyes finally met. I could tell that he was surprised as well as apprehensive. He smiled.
When the service was over he came up to me and after hesitating for a moment we embraced. We walked out together into the sunlight. Niko had been tonsured as a novice three days previously, his hair had been cut short. The pony tail was gone and the beard was only now just starting to grow again. "Dad I can't believe you are really here. You missed my tonsure by only three days." He looked gaunt, though energetic and happy. He wore the black cossack known as rassa and a black hat. His boots were caked with the mud created by the melting snow that survived here and there. We spent some time with Thano before his departure for Athens. "Your yiayia sends you her love, let us know if you need anything, Nikolaki" he said as he got into his car. We watched until his car disappeared down the hill.
The acting Abbott gave his blessing for me to stay at the monastery with Father Panteleimon, formerly known as Niko to his friends and family, in his cell. It was heated by a stone fireplace which we fed with wood at night to ward off the night-time chill. For the next five days I adjusted myself to the monastery routine, helping my son with his duties when I could, like lighting the oil lamps in the Katholikon in the early morning hours. We went to services three times a day and the two communal meals at 10 AM and 6 PM. The rest of the day was devoted to the many chores that must be performed to keep things going like cooking and cleaning including manual labor. It had been many years since I had led such a Spartan existence and it reminded a little of my days as a young Marine when life seemed so carefree and adventure was a daily occurrence. The monastery dogs, Teratoula (the little beast) and Blackie, became my companions when they realized that I was good for the occasional treat. They soon guarded our doorway lest anyone infringe on their access to such an easy mark.
Living in such close proximity with my son I think both of us began to see each other differently. Father Panteleimon had changed in fundamental ways. He had matured, seemed more relaxed and always had a gleem in his eyes. He was truly happy and comfortable with who he was. There was no regret. He was no longer the young man chaffing at his father's frequent advice nor worried about the future. Then again, Nick had never been a kid afraid to venture out into the cold, cruel world beyond. His first day of school was instructive. My wife, Anna, the quintessential Greek mommy dressed him in new school clothes, cute little shoes, with a backpack and a lunch box filled with a nutritious balanced meal for three kids. She planned to chauffeur him to school and help him negotiate his first uncertain moments at school. Unbeknownst to her, the big yellow school bus unexpectedly pulled up right in front of our home. Nick took one look, immediately grabbed his trash, kicked the door open, and ran directly to the waiting bus. He looked back, waved and yelled: "Bye Momma, Bye Daddy," just as the door of the school bus closed shut behind him. All we could do was wave and smile bravely as the bus drove away, the tears streaming down Anna's face.
Perhaps I had changed too and he sensed this. I had been chastened and humbled by the events of the last year. Having understood my sadness he went out of his way to look after the lost old man in his midst. He would heap extra wool blankets on me at night and wake up early before the crack of dawn to stoke the fire so the room was not cold when I woke up. At night he would make me a cup of tea and worry when I skipped a meal. "Have something to nibble on Baba, tsimbise kati," he'd say with a smile. It was enough to make my heart break. We talked about his Mom, his brother and everyone we knew and he read the pile of letters I delivered.
The days passed quickly. It was the little things that I will remember about this time, like being in a cold, darkened church as we went from oil lamp to oil lamp, filling them with oil and lighting each one. The illumined faces of Christ, the Theotokos and the Saints that surrounded and looked down on us. The church was a time capsule of sorts, hardly changed over the centuries. In the silence, one felt the presence of all the sinners like me who had worshiped there. You could almost hear their whispered prayers in the midst of the turmoil of their own lives of hardship, poverty and war. The evening meal was a simple soup made of tahini with crusty bread and olives. As we listened to the reading I watched him eat as if he was some alien being I was observing for the first time, trying to memorize the details of his features.
On my last morning I decided to get up early to take a walk. It was quiet except for the chirping of the birds heralding the arrival of Spring. I surveyed the surrounding mountains dressed in a distant mist, the meadows decked out in sprouting wild flowers while the tree branches budding new leaves swayed back and forth in the gentle breeze. The monastery began to stir and the light brightened. At Orthos I listened to my son chant with the other monks and felt strangely at peace, the peace that comes with acceptance. At one point he left briefly to take care of something, as he brushed past me he must have noticed that I was lost in my thoughts and playfully but unobtrusively nudged me. He did the same upon his return, assuming his previous position where he looked so very much at ease. He was a man now, yet the little boy peeked out smiling, to reassure me. Before I left I prostrated myself three times before the wonder-working icon of the Panagia tenderly holding the Christ Child while praying that she look after my son, knowing that she well understood how a parent feels.
He drove me to the bus station down the winding mountain road into the bustling town, where we waited together. "I am going to miss you," I said after a palpable silence. He gave me a forlorn look, "Baba, I already miss you and you haven't even left yet." We talked about his mother and brother. "I'll give them your letters," I promised. The bus driver had opened the door of the bus now while passengers were lining up with their tickets to board. I finally gave him my blessing and asked him to pray for his family, living and dead. We embraced each other. "I love you, son," holding him close. "I love you too, Dad." Wiping a tear away, I got on the bus without looking back.
Agapite Stavro,
accidentally browsed your archives here today, felt too well seeing so seemingly diverse but at the same time focused material.
Had considered posting a note as felt proud about people whose traces in some sense,crossed mine.
Seeing this last and most personal story here, hesitated and for a monment reconsidered.
But again felt obliged to post my comment.
Have to tell that the point around which all these I've read here focus, is man. And the journey to discover man is never ending and inevitably personal.
It's a life's journey.
Going on, as everyone.
KKV
Athens
Greece
Posted by: Kosmas K Venetis | 27 April 2011 at 10:28 AM
Stavros
Words cannot express how I felt reading the journey that Niko has taken. As a parent, this has brought tears to my eyes and a lump in my throat. But these are the mysteries that God has given us to endure. God in His wisdom knows the reasons and all our lives are in His hands.
Posted by: Kathy P | 27 April 2011 at 02:07 PM
Αγαπητε φιλε μου,
Να ξερεις οτι χαιρομαι ιδιαιτερος οταν Ελληνες απο την πατριδα διαβαζουν την ιστοσελιδα μου.
We are all on our separate odysseys, may we find what we seek and help others along the way find it as well.
Kathy,
Our lives are indeed in His hands. A writer tries to satisfy some inner need to express his feelings through the written word. If we can elicit a response from the reader as well, what more can we ask for?
Posted by: Stavros | 27 April 2011 at 10:27 PM
...and i used to think being a father is tough and having grown up children is like harvest time for a gardener.
This must be the ultimate test of faith.
But what i see is Niko's love.
May joy prevail on his choice!
Posted by: Istvan | 29 April 2011 at 08:45 PM
Istvan,
Harvest time is bittersweet for parents. Most of us want what is best for them and that is not always what is best for us. Nevertheless, if they are happy, how can we not be happy for them. :)
Posted by: Stavros | 30 April 2011 at 04:13 PM
As we all struggle through life we pray that we make the best choices for ourselves and our children. Reading your journey to see Niko touched me so much. I couldn't help myself from the flashback memories of the little boy I watched growing up. I hope he is truely happy. As difficult as it is for the rest of us to accept his path I admire his strong faith. I miss you all. I sometimes regret being so far. I wish I was closer to comfort my friend Anna and Chris. I pray one day I will make the journey to see Niko.
Posted by: voula | 16 May 2011 at 04:26 AM
We miss you all too. Life sometimes takes us far from friends and family, it happens to everyone sooner or later. Bonds once created are not so easily broken. Warm regards.
Posted by: Stavros | 17 May 2011 at 09:54 AM
this is a truly beautiful story about the way a father and son reconcile their differences - thank you for sharing such a personal aspect of your life; it gives me the courage to identify more with my own young children and see their lives as a unique journey of their own, and not a continuation of my own history
Posted by: maria v | 22 August 2011 at 04:48 AM
A very dear friend gave me a copy of a poem which I treasure and understand now more than ever. Every parent should read it. It is by a Lebanese poet named Khalil Gibran from a collection of poems entitled "The Prophet." Be assured Maria that no matter where their journey takes them you will travel with them just as your own mother travels with you.
CHILDREN
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
Posted by: Stavros | 22 August 2011 at 09:36 PM
this poem reminds me of the differnce between the chinese and greek ways of naming one's offspring: the greeks look to their ancestors to choose the name for the next generation, while the chinese choose a new name that does not have any connection with the child's past, so as not to curse it with the family's history (the past is over, they look for an appropriate future)
Posted by: maria v | 31 August 2011 at 08:00 AM
Stavros,
Thank you for your words. Though they brought tears to my eyes, I found comfort in knowing that he is safe and that you had an opportunity to spend some precious time by his side. He was one of my dearest friends and I think of him often. You and your beautiful family are always in my prayers.
Warmly,
Donna Elias
Posted by: Donna Elias | 01 September 2011 at 02:37 PM
Maria,
The way I look at it is that the Chinese worship their ancestors and look to them for aid and protection from misfortune. Greeks on the other hand recognize their human weaknesses and pray for their eternal souls. I think I understand what you mean though.
Greek culture puts a great deal of emphasis on children, perhaps it is more difficult for us to let go of them than other cultures, to their detriment.
Donna,
So good to hear from you. We too miss him, more than you can imagine. Best wishes to you and your family. Thank you for your very kind message.
Posted by: Stavros | 01 September 2011 at 07:23 PM
Stavros...it was with fond memories of Nick, Chris and you and Anna, that I read your incredibly touching account of Nick's journey of faith and the impact it has had on all of you. While my heart was heavy for you and Anna, I couldn't help but smile at the photos of you and Nick at the Monastary...he is changed and a man, yes, but he has that same peaceful countenance that Rich and I always noticed when Nick was just a kid in middle school. We admire his courage, and yours. Our hearts are with you, please give our love to Anna. We miss you all! Mary
Posted by: Mary Larson | 28 September 2011 at 10:28 PM
Stavros! I could quip "strength and honor," or "stay the course." But really, all I am thinking, is that he fully embraced what you taught him. In a way he IS honoring the opportunities you provided him; you opened his mind to God as well as the world. He has tasted both, and has settled on which is more staisfying. It makes total sense to me... It makes me want to commend you. I hope to be such an inspiring father when all is said and done. Take care. I think of you all so often! Rich
Posted by: Mary Larson | 29 September 2011 at 08:00 AM
Dear Mary and Rich,
You are sorely missed here in Maine. Thank you for your kind comments. They mean a great deal to us. Just got back from Greece where I visited my son. He is well as are we all. I pray we will get to see you all soon and reminisce about the old days.
God bless, Anna & Stavros
Posted by: Stavros | 30 September 2011 at 11:37 AM