Between the Cross and the Classroom

chapter 1

I'm losing focus in theology and tradition class. The subject is "Byzantine Theology and Doctrine".
My attention is at the window, I am watching the Athonite monks preparing for their choir. Their movements are slow and deliberate, as if each step carries the weight of centuries prayer. Cloaked in simple black robes, their presence is almost otherworldly - radiating a quiet holiness that seems to blend with the air itself. Every gesture, whether lighting a candle or murmuring a chant, feels like a bridge between heaven and earth as if they're not just walking among us, but dwelling in divine.

"Katerina"

The sudden voice of my teacher pulls me back to reality. Father Demetrios, his eyes gentle but firm, is standing at the front of the class.
"Could you tell us about the significance of the Hesychast tradition in Byzantine theology?"
His question hangs in the air, it's a test whether my mind had wondered too far from the lesson. But I remember enough to answer.

"Hesychasm," I begin slowly, "is the tradition in Byzantine theology that emphasizes inner stillness and constant prayer. It's about achieving a deep connection with God, through the repetition of the Jesus prayer -
'Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner' the monks, especially on mount athos, practice it as a way of purifying the soul and quieting the mind, so they can experience God's uncreated light.... Like the apostles did during the Transfiguration"

Father Demetrios nods approvingly, his eyes softening.
"Very good, Katerina," he says, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief. But my gaze, almost instinctively, drifts back to the monks outside the window.

As I look around the classroom, I noticed the faded wooden desks adorned with the occasional doodle from the students, remnants of previous lectures lingering in the air.  The soft rustle of papers and the low hum of murmured conversations surround me.  A group of girls in the background whispering, their laughter breaking the solemn atmosphere.  One of them, Eleni, is excitedly recounting her weekend at the church retreat, her hands animatedly mimicking the gestures of the priest during a particularly emotional sermon. 

"I can't believe you didn't come, Katerina.  You would have loved it, the worship was so powerful,"
she says, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. 

I smile faintly, half-listening, still caught up with the sacred presence of the monks and the chatter of the classrooms.  The bell rings, shattering the moment, and I gather my things. 
As we file out of the classroom, the energy shifts.

Outside, the sun bathes the courtyard in a golden light, and I feel the warmth on my face.  My classmates are buzzing with excitement, discussing plans for the weekend, their voices rising and falling like the chants of the monks I had just been watching.  I take a deep breath, letting the fresh air fill my lungs, grounding me in the present moment. 

"Hey Katerina! Are you joining us for the choir concert tonight?" Another friend asks, pulling me back into the conversation.  I glance back at the monks, still singing in the distance, and I feel a pull within me.

"Yeah, I'll be there," I reply, my heart fluttering at the thought of experiencing their beautiful music up close. 
The echoes of their prayers and the joy of my friends coexist, filling my world with both the sacred and the ordinary.

As Eleni and I walk away from the school building, the soft murmur of voices in the last few students linger in the air, merging with the fading sounds of birds and wind.  The final bell had rung a while ago, the school emptying quickly, leaving behind scattered students who seemed in no rush to leave.  The warm afternoon sun casts long shadows across the courtyard, elongating everything around us, as if stretching the day itself.  We move in step with the flow of students toward the gate, the familiar routine of walking off school grounds usually a comforting end to the day. 
My thoughts are clouded with events that happened today, replaying conversations and glances that stick with me longer than they should.  It's always been like this, my mind always thinking, dissecting moments as if there's some hidden meaning in them that I need to understand.  I've always been a thinker, an observer by birth.  People catch in these moments sometimes, lost in my own head. 
They wonder what's wrong always, as if my silence must mean something is troubling me.