3 plus 1 stories of prayer

Translated from the original by “M.L.”

I have lived in Athens my whole life. I used to spend in the city even the hot, dry summers. I have gathered many pictures from Athens in my mind’s eye, a few of them so intense that I cannot forget them. This blog gave me the opportunity to present 3 plus 1 true stories of people who prayed. I witnessed these events and I was moved to tears, hopefully, not out of cheap sentimentality, but because of the acknowledgment of those individuals’ faith. Of course, this is subjective and some readers may find the stories uninteresting while others may be moved. I am not a professional writer and perhaps my writing style cannot capture the power of the moment. But enough with the excuses, let’s start...

1^st Story

In the church of the Holy Trinity in Ambelokipi (at Kifissias Avenue), there is an old icon of Mother Mary wearing a silver “shirt”, locked in its shrine. A slot in the shrine allows pilgrims to throw inside prayer notes for Virgin Mary. It is a custom, which I have not encountered in another temple in Athens or even Greece in general. In February 2012 I entered the church to light a candle. At the shrine, there was a little piece of paper, torn and written in extremely poor grammar, which read “ My Sweet Mary, please give to my daughter girl a baby like the one you are holding in your arms”.

2^nd Story

One summer night, several years ago, I was walking from the Lycabettus Hill Theater down to Kolonaki. From a side alley, I stepped right next to the church of St. Dionysius Areopagite. Readers of this article may know that Athens boasts of the famous Dionysius being one of the first believers of the Apostle Paul. He became the first (some sources say second) bishop of the city and is the patron saint of the capital. What you may not know is that the resplendent temple at Skoufa street has unfortunately been linked to celebrity marriages and generally the nouveau riche. So, as I was passing this life style symbol (and at the same time a pilgrimage to the Athenians Christians) I saw on the sidewalk in front of the marble staircase of the closed church, a homeless person, one of those people who we usually pass without even looking at them. He was bowing incessantly, while his lips were whispering a prayer. The reverence he was expressing was something that I still have not found again. Let’s also consider that it was late, with no passers-by but me, which means that this person was literally engaged in his prayer, with no chance whatsoever of the prayer being a fake one.

3^rd Story

Let’s go back in time, even further, almost 10 years ago. The place is the historic church of Mother Mary, at Akadimias avenue. It was late afternoon and I entered to light a candle. There were many candles in the candelabras, but at that time there was nobody in the church, apart from the sacristan. Behind me, a lady entered, about 50 years old and dressed in black. She went to the sacristan and with a tired voice she asked for a candle. After she was handled the candle, she approached the imposing silver icon of Mother Mary, located to the left of the church. Ignoring anything that was happening around her, she knelt, touched the picture with one hand, burst into tears and loud sobs and exclaimed "Mother Mary, do your miracle."

And a 4^th story

Why is the title of my article “3 plus 1 stories of prayer”? Because the fourth story belongs to a fellow human being, a Muslim and most likely an illegal immigrant in Athens. Illegal immigrants are like ghosts: they move between two worlds, the host country and their country, belonging nowhere. I saw this man a few months ago, one afternoon that it was already dark, at the traffic lights junction of Piraeus Avenue and Iera Odos street. Anyone familiar with the area knows that very few people walk there, there is usually only the constant movement of cars. At the time, the immigrant was alone, and as I was turning in my car, I saw him spread an ancient cloth, like a sheet, among many garbage bags and kneeling for his evening prayer.

Writer Alexia Kriniti