Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Men of Faith part 3

Father Basili saved us. It was as simple as that. Looking back I can't believe how incredibly lucky we were to have met him when we did...who knows what would have happened if Tim had gotten so ill elsewhere...

The women were all in tears as I opened Father Basili's suitcase and looked for his large gold cross. He had lit the incense cube and placed it in his gold plated holder, which hung from a long chain. The smoke cube would be next. I had learned the procedure quickly and was following the Father in each step. This was the third funeral anniversary for me in two days and I made a good assistant. Since Tim had been bed-ridden for the last 4 days I tried to be as useful to Basili as possible and to occupy my time.

Kristi was the name of the deceased girl and Father was visibly shaken as he condoled her mother, grandmother and other loved ones. She was one of many who died too young in car accidents - a major problem in Georgia, as in my own country. Looking at the face chiseled into the 2-yr old tombstone I could tell that Kristi was a beautiful young girl and I would later find out she had been of child as well when she tragically died.

Father Tom, a small man who hardly spoke during the 7 days I knew him, seemed to take little interest in anything. He finished Father Basili's prayer and soon he was behind the wheel of his Golf driving my host and I. The ritual was short - a few prayers, the women moaning loudly over the grave, a blessing by Basili and some champagne poured over the grave. We all left saddened but things soon livelied up as we headed back to Kristi's mother's house for a supra (feast) - such is the tradition and in this way Kristi would be honored for years to come.

"How's Tim today?", Father Tom asks much to my amazement as we took our seats at the long table. "Not much better. The doctor said he has pneumonia. He's getting some shots and needs to rest for a few days." "Hmmmm."
The table is loaded with food - dozens of plates of delicious Georgian delicacies such as lobio (bean paste), fried mushrooms and smoked fish all piled on top of each other. The tamada (toastmaster) lifts his glass for the first toast. We honor God first and the men all rise to their feet as do I. As was the case with all the feasts I had been to, everyone inquires about me and Father Basili explains patiently. As the feast progresses and we go through the steps of tamada, my host pinches my knee and tells me we'd be going soon. There would be another funeral anniversary... it could have been the grey winter weather or the depressingly poor living conditions many Georgians were facing but it seemed that death was all around...

"To our guest from Croatia! You have come a long way to join us at our table and know we respect this! May you be healthy and may God bless you and your path! To you, friend!" The 60-70 men all rise to their feet and drink to my health and I too gulp down my glass of wine. I was touched by the respect shown to me, by the similarities between our cultures, by the passion of these struggling people. I was wise not to drink too much that feast but the wine did give my tongue some courage and I found myself asking the tamada permission to say a toast as we were leaving.
"I apologize comrades for not speaking Georgian and for my bad Russian but I would like to speak. I will never forget you and your great country. There have been many wars in my country and in yours. No more wars for either, I wish you all peace... to peace!", and the men drank with me.

"How are you feeling man?" "The shot in the morning killed me. I felt dead, other than that I'm the same." After two days of antibiotics and vitamin shots, Tim should have been feeling better. He hadn't gotten out of bed in 3 days and Father Basili and I had been pouring liters of tea and juice in him...

"I don't think I'll be continuing. My walk is over." "Come on Tim, you'll be fine in a couple of days." "I've got pneumonia nigger! I'm not going to die because of this walk! There are other things I want to do..." This was the first time I heard Tim speak this way and I was worried. I had known for a while that he probably wouldn't make it to China with his fragile immunity but now I was worried he wouldn't even make it to Tbilisi. I knew if he didn't get better soon he would have to take a bus to Tbilisi and I would have to continue alone...

My days in Ozurgeti were mostly spent learning Russian by the gas heater in Basili's living room, playing with his sons Luka and Ivan and the adorable chubby-cheeked 3-yr old Anastacia, and following my host during his clergic obligations. I also spent a lot of time in the local church learning about Orthodox Christianity and the Georgian Patriarchy - thanks to many discussions with Father Ermo, Basili and many other clergy men in the church who were all very friendly towards me. I also bonded with Basili's oldest daughter, Maria (14 yrs old) whom I gave a few English lessons and who played a Georgian wooden flute splendidly. Father Basili was a merry man and always full of jokes (surprisingly some even dirty!). He is compassionate and a good example of what a Christian should be. He hosted me and my sick companion for a week and patiently tended to our needs. His family was big yet his home was always open for neighbors, relatives, friends and even on one occasion for a worried young couple expecting their first child. His house was always full of guests, kids wrestling on the floor and the happy sounds of crying babies, the clinking of silverware, of men toasting...of life...

Maria was studying by the heater as Luka and Ivan were wrestling on the floor. Eleyna, Father Basili's wife, was preparing dinner and a few relatives were lingering about the spacious house as Father Basili arrived with a special guest.
In a way I knew it was the bishop before he opened the door. Basili entered before him and said something excitedly in Georgian and everyone immediately dropped what they were doing. The bishop, clad in a black robe and large golden cross (as the other priests are), strutted into the house and everyone ran to kiss his hand as he slowly extended it. It was surreal...the way he strutted about having his hand eagerly kissed...as if he was doing them all a great favor...he was simply "pimpalicious":) Accompanied by a feverish woman (an assistant of sorts) he took his seat at the head of the table and slowly stroked his long white Santa Claus beard. He greeted Tim and I and blessed us with the sign of the cross as we too kissed his plump hand. Everyone waited for him to speak, careful, very careful to make him feel as respected as possible.

"You walked here from Constantinople. That is a very hard task. The two of you must be good men, only a good man can do something like that. You are Catholics though, if you were Orthodox you would be even better!" and the bishop burst out laughing as did everyone else at the table. "Catholics were the same religion as we were before." "Yes, we know Father, Tim and I really don't really care about the pope though. We don't really care too much about dogma at all. I don't think its important how you pray as long as you do good." "Yes, my son, that is the most important thing but the way you pray is also important and the right way is written in the Bible..." and so the bishop and I entered a memorable teological discussion which lasted hours...

"You know," began the bishop towards the end of the evening "I understand why you walk and I know how difficult it is. When I was a student I walked across Georgia for nearly two months. I know how tired you are at the end of the day and how difficult it is to share your soul with others then...I know that's what you do..." He did seem to understand as he looked at me with his mysterious eyes. I wondered if he too had only two pairs of socks while he walked and if he washed them by hand in hotel and gas station bathrooms. Perhaps he was really a holy man as everyone at the table thought him to be....then Father Basili shows me an application on the bishop's iPhone - a candle appears which you put out by blowing on the screen..."Somehow holy men don't have iphones," I think to myself....but what does make a man "holy" and what does this word mean at all? I had a lot of time to think about this and other teological ideas waiting for Tim to get better...Conclusions? Personal and hard to explain...

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