I woke up before sunrise and took Rufus for a run. Sunday, in this part of the world, is still noticeably quiet. Even the guard dogs in the village sleep in. Just the birds are more nosy than usual, maybe just due to the deep Sunday silence.

Usually we go to the evangelical church on Sunday evening, but if you have energy to spend at more churches, one usually goes to the orthodox service in the morning as well.

I visited a few upon our move, but they were too far, too crowded, too pretentious or tone deaf. I used to go to church in the village, with my grandmother in the mountains, or in my home town in the village just outside town. I loved the simplicity and the spirit of it. And the ceremony of bringing ones soul in the presence of God, without interacting with others.

So this Sunday we decided to visit this new church. My parents told me about it. We can see it from our balcony, up on the hill across the valley. It’s almost 2 miles away and has a shiny copper roof.

We walked up the hill and sat on the bench outside as the very familiar orthodox service proceeded. The wind was cool, the view was gorgeous with sweeping greens, the atmosphere village like and the singing beautiful. At the end of the service I found out that the wife of the orthodox priest is my former university accounting teacher, the pretty and kind one.

Sunday morning was surreal. It transported me back into my childhood in the very best way possible. I have never visited a church so happily situated.