He missed sharing a birthday with Michael by 3.5 hours. He came quickly after a long labor, weighing 8lbs 6oz and 22 inches long. We’re so happy, so exhausted, and adjusting to the shape of our new little family.

Gabriel has the same birthmark as Noah (!) right on his forehead. We can’t tell who he looks like yet, but we know we took home the right one thanks to that birthmark.

Today is the Synaxis of the Archangel Gabriel, for whom he was named. He shares another Name Day1 with his dad (Feast of Holy Archangels Michael and Gabriel, November 8), and one with Noah (St. Ephraim and St. Isaac, January 28).

Happy first Name Day, little one.

That’s all the wherewithal I have to write. Sorry for any grammatical errors, etc—we’re tired! Thank you all for your prayers during this season.

Have a Blessed Lent and wonderful Easter.

“It’s just so gross and cold out here! How can anyone live!” I whine to my neighbor from Minnesota. He nods sympathetically and I know he’s humoring me. But this is classic February. My skin is dry and itchy. I’ve had my hundredth weird virus. I’m haggard. I have to put on an odd mismatch of layered clothes just to check the mail. I almost bought our family matching balaclavas and I didn’t, which I deeply regret.

Since the temperature is above 30 finally, I took Noah and the girls out on a short adventure walk. It was a perfect time to feel the distant sun on our faces and speculate on the number of crows. We walked down the big hill outside our apartment and up to the baseball fields across the street. The group I was with all had too short of legs to traipse through the tall unbroken snow between the fields, so we stayed in the ugly little drive by the concession stands. Noah went to work right away, using the big stick he had brought with us to hack away at some snow banks. Then, he found a puddle to fish in. The girls sniffed around the back of the concession stand. I willed myself to take it all in, watching morosely. The snow banks are piled high—the parking lots at the grocery stores have about 10 feet. Out here they were probably between 4 and 5 feet and look like they’ll never melt. They’re an eyesore. I sigh as I step over another pile of slush.

I let my mind wander while watching the gang explore. I imagine springtime here, the smell of cut grass and freshly turned over dirt. A team of little leaguers is playing and there’s a faint whiff of hot dogs coming from the concession stand. The sunlight is warm, the breeze is cool. There’s fresh flowers planted along the sides. The game finishes up, we walk back home to start dinner, and evening ushers in a soft spring rain.

As I’m playing out this scene, the snow covered fields transform. I look closer as they begin to glitter. The water droplets of melted snow that have formed the top layer have given way and exposed intricate crevices underneath. It’s no longer soft and powdery, it’s jagged, like little mountains. I feel like I’m looking at a miniature desert rock formation, or the ceiling of a tiny cave. The dirt shows the individual snowflake patterns and I can pick out each fat melted crystal. I can’t look away.

As somewhat of a pessimist, I have no patience for being told to “look at the bright side.” Even if the intention behind it is pure, it still makes me want to answer, “What? We’ll all be dead soon?” It’s not my kindest quality. Although I think this sentiment is more of something you say when you don’t know what to say, I actually do believe there’s a small grain of truth hidden in there: our hearts are drawn to beauty. We know it when we see it, and yet, it’s the kind of beauty that the heart must be tuned to first in order to perceive. A heart that is tuned properly can hear it and see it in all places, in all things.

It’s tough to see beauty in this season, both in the bleak February weather and the excruciating end of pregnancy. I open my eyes to another day of harsh cold winds, gray skies, sore back, no energy, and swollen feet. It’s bleak out there and in here. I say the Jesus prayer1 and let myself be reoriented. My eyes and heart still have a long way to go to be properly honed, but I try again.

The ascent of winter and the end of pregnancy coinciding with the beginning Great Lent is a uniquely ascetic struggle this year. But I’m trying to lean into it and let myself be shaped by Love Himself. Beauty is here, in the grime and snow and in the life giving weakness of my body. It’s here in the biting cold and ice covered hills. It’s here in the swollen feet, the hospital walls, and fatigue. It’s here in the long winter and in the resurrection of Spring.

Have a blessed Lent.

A blizzard is ushering the first week of Lent right now, which feels fitting. The storm brings with it a blanket of silence, covering the landscape with white powdery snow, again. It’s not as cold as it was when the snow hit us in January, so it’s at least nice!

This semester has gone by quickly and been somewhat easier (more manageable?) than last. In continuing my awful trend from last semester, I’ve been sick many times since January, but the boys have managed to evade my various diseases. Michael’s schoolwork is going really well and he’s enjoying his classes—Patristics, Sacred Narrative, Dogmatic Theology (Dog T), New Testament, and music.

Things are ramping up this week beginning with the annual Lenten retreat at the seminary. The demands of services and chapel will increase as well, along with regular schoolwork. All of this of course, is compounded by the imminent arrival of Baby Boy during the fifth week of Lent. Whew. Keep us in your prayers!

Thank you so much for reading this newsletter. I appreciate being able to share our journey with each of you. You’re all in our hearts and prayers, especially during this season.

The problem with this being my first post is that there is so much that could be said about our first semester here and the one which begins tomorrow, January 12. I will try to be considerate of your time though and confine myself to the highlights. The first semester was a blur, both while we were in it and still in hindsight. I expected it to be challenging and as it turns out I wasn’t wrong! Oh, the joys of being proven right… I feel like I was still kicking off the rust by the time finals rolled around and then the next thing I knew we were on Christmas break. I ended up achieving reasonably good grades and actually loved a few of my classes.

I quickly realized that, although incredibly important and kind of why we’re here, classes are just one of several important components of this experience. First and foremost is our family unit, just like in any context. Andrea has already shared some wonderful stories about our time here. Even though I’m the one in class, the first semester was a big adjustment for all three of us. Andrea and I just celebrated our 7th anniversary on December 30, and I am more in awe of her than when we began our relationship. She does so much to make all of this possible, from working a full time job, to being an attentive mom and wife, and cooking a vast majority of the meals (just to name a few contributions). She spoils Noah and I in the best ways. Noah has blossomed since being here and I love getting to see him grow into the compassionate, intelligent, hilarious, and prayerful little boy that he is. We have many young children on campus, and it’s fun to watch him get into the fray with the other kids. Of everything I learned the first semester, he taught me one of my most important lessons.

“Dada, do you want to build a crane with me??”

I lost track of how many times our little guy – sorry, he affirms that he is a Big Guy – asked me this as I sat at our small table and tried to do homework. “Building a crane” at this stage means stacking his 2 inch wooden blocks as high as we can before they fall down, or before he decides it’s fun to knock them down and I pretend to be exasperated at the destruction. We build daddy cranes (tallest), mama cranes (next tallest), Noah cranes, Daisy and Lola cranes (our two mini aussies), Grandma cranes – we’ve maybe built a crane for you too. Our tallest was about 3 feet! One day I realized it’s not about the blocks, as fun as that is… it’s my son asking for quality time and connection with his dada. Once that light bulb went off, I stopped internally grumbling or stressing about the homework that would have to always get done “later” and started joyfully building cranes. Yes, school work has to get done – that’s what I’m here for after all – but I’d venture to say that building cranes is more important. It’s rewarding beyond what words can convey when I walk through the door after class and he comes running with all his might and says, “Dada, I’m so happy to see youuuuu!”

Having one semester under my belt offers some perspective as we begin classes tomorrow. Sure, I had a conceptual awareness of what to expect before the fall, but like everything else – starting a new career, becoming a parent, getting married – it’s a whole different world once you’re in it. I have a decent notion of what to expect from classes this go-round, and I’ve learned important lessons about myself even in a short amount of time. Rest is almost always more important than burning the midnight oil to get assigned reading 100% completed. Sometimes, arriving a few minutes late to chapel is the right thing to do if it means giving my wife and son my undivided attention for a few more minutes in the morning or evening. I’m learning to get out of my introverted comfort zone, such as the time when I happened upon a classmate crying in the stairwell after the loss of a family member. I had a meeting to get to, but stopping and connecting that person was exactly what I needed to do at that moment. The Lord had a thing or two to say about [would be] religious leaders passing to the other side of the road, after all. I’m learning how to juggle conflicting priorities and how to accept my limitations. I’m learning, as always, how to confidently be myself in this sometimes strenuous environment, and that comparing myself to others is the enemy of internal peace. I’m constantly trying to remember to pray, an idea that might sound shocking from someone at seminary, but a lesson we all must learn no matter where we are planted.

I could go on for many pages to come, but instead I will draw this first post to a close. If you’ve read this far, thank you for taking the time. It really does mean a lot to me. I will commit to more regular updates in the semester to come. Please keep our family in your prayers, especially as we prepare to welcome our second son around the third week of March. Know that we are praying for you – Noah mentions many people by name during our family prayers as he “plays priest” – and we miss you. I’m still adjusting to New York being our home for these three years, but I am confident we are where we are supposed to be and ever grateful to call this place “new home” (as Noah says), surrounded by a truly wonderful community of people.

If you are one of the people already financially supporting us, know that your support means more than we can say. It’s truly humbling to be on the receiving end of so much generosity. If you would like to partner with us and make either a one time or ongoing contribution, you can do that at the Tithe.ly link below.

Thank you all. We love you.

-Michael

Thank you all for your generosity and support this year! If you would like to make a one-time or recurring donation, please use the link below to give to our seminary fund. God bless you!

Tithe.ly

During the first few weeks at seminary, I got drawn into a conversation I had been hoping to have an audience for since we arrived.

We were sitting at one of the back tables at coffee hour with a nice looking couple and their young son close to Noah’s age. Both of them also sang in the choir and so our conversation turned to choir stuff: our respective vocal parts, whether we were going to try out for the SVS Chorale, and our own choral backgrounds. “What’s the choir like at your home parish?” The male half of the couple asked.

Finally. Seizing the opportunity, I treated them to a 10 minute lecture about the music at St. John’s, complete with my own rendition of a litany from a composer whose initials I can never remember, and a ton of enthusiastic hand waving. His eyebrows went up and down a few times. I left thinking that I probably came off too intense, but they humored me and didn’t seem put off by my zest for it.

One of the things I grieved before we left was the choir at St. John’s. Michael and I sang there together for over 10 years. It was the tuning fork that developed my ear. It was often a battleground to work out my own jealously and insecurity, and lately, parenting struggles. It was where I sang Noah his first lullabies. Michael had a special spot behind the reader stand with his own, carefully organized and laminated binder. It was where we belonged in the physical space of the church, our home.

Our same group had more or less been singing together for the last 5 years. Because of our time together, we had the gift of being able to develop a mature sound, leaning on each other the way people who’ve been together for a long time can. We also—with the encouragement of Fr Gabe—had begun singing a new repertoire that was distinctly American. These pieces blend elements of different strands of traditional American folk music with Orthodox liturgical settings. Our church doesn’t sound like a Greek or Russian church, it sounds like a church based in Atlanta, Georgia. On our last Sunday, I wept as we sang the Appalachian setting of Psalm 103, knowing I’d likely never hear this unique sound again.

Music has a powerful effect on memory. Music is processed by the primordial region of the brain, the cerebellum, which is also where emotional regulation takes place. The loved ones of those suffering from dementia and Alzheimer’s find that they can still reach them by playing or singing melodies from their childhood, as the music center of the brain is the last to be ravaged by the disease. A few years ago, a video went viral of an elderly woman suffering from dementia, who had been a ballerina when she was young woman. When she hears Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, you see her transform into the dancer she once was—her delicate wrists moving into position and her spine straitening up, despite being wheelchair bound. The heaviness of her disease falls away as she’s transfigured into an icon of grace and beauty. Her true nature is revealed with a song.

A few months after my coffee hour performance, Michael was in choir practice and was handed a setting of Gladsome Light that was composed by someone with oddly familiar initials, the ones I can never remember. With a shock, he realized they belonged to the very man from that coffee hour. That’s right—I unwittingly sang a song to the guy who wrote it and then waxed poetic about it. It’s so embarrassing to be earnest! After getting through the subsequent kaleidoscope of emotion, from shock to humiliation to sheepishness to fury (he could have stopped me at any point???), we all had a good laugh about it. It’s not lost on me that we left home with the sound of this music in our hearts, only to come to the place where we’d be with its composer for the next three years. It’s another mercy and a gift.

The Christ child isn’t born yet and we’re still waiting in darkness. The echos of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” are heard in the long dawn of Advent. With it, I’m drawn back to a Christmas of yore, singing carols at St. John’s during the Grant Park Tour of Homes. We toast our spiked cider downstairs and I’m buzzy with sentimental mush. In a few days, we’ll join the shepherds and the Angelic choir wondering at the God of the universe becoming incarnate in a cave in 1st century Palestine. We’ll stand in awe at Life taking the form of a tiny human baby. Year after year, we sing at Christmas, “Today is the beginning of our salvation” and with a song we are reminded that Christ’s birth ushers in the transformation of all of humanity. When God dwells with man, we are invited to dwell with Him.

We’re in Atlanta this Christmas and get to hear the songs of home again. It’s a joy to spend this season with our friends and family singing together as we await the coming of the Light.

Merry Christmas.

Psalm 103 / First Antiphon by Michael’s classmate, HDJB. Website here

We celebrated Michael being 16% done with seminary and 100% done with Greek with the first snowfall of the year. It was all magic and light and sledding and chicken pot pie and hot chocolate. It was a perfect few days before returning home!

Noah and the girls of course, also loved the snow.

We’re enjoying this much needed break from school, this disgustingly warm-ish Atlanta weather, and sneaking treats from my parent’s treat cabinet. I hope your Christmastide is as festive and joyful and peaceful as well.

Thank you so much for reading this newsletter. I appreciate being able to share our journey with each of you. You’re all in our hearts and prayers.

Michael has finally had the time to share some thoughts of his about finishing the first semester. So be on the lookout for another letter from us!

Merry Christmas.

I love Thanksgiving. Growing up, Thanksgiving was always our low-key holiday for just us, since all of my extended family is in Texas and the break was always too short to justify the 15 hour drive in both directions. But the food was serious. My dad would deep fry the turkey and our sides would be a either a riff on a family recipe or “brought to you by Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup.” Both were excellent. My mom would pull out all the stops for desserts—cookies, BigM’s pies, apple crumble. For a few years, we also had a tradition of watching The Godfather on TCM when it came on in the middle of the day. The big olive green couch always lulled me to sleep right before the horse scene.

At the table, we’d do the classic Thanksgiving activity where everyone would have to say one thing they’re grateful for that year. No repeats. And nothing too obvious. It’s good to take a moment to be thankful for the roof over your head–everyone should be grateful for that every day. But it takes a little more brain power (especially after it’s been dulled with smoked trout dip) to think about what you’ve really been overwhelmed with gratitude for. Or even all the little things throughout the year you’ve completely taken for granted. Those are the hardest ones for me to remember, but when I do, it immediately recasts those memories with light. I’m surrounded by light everywhere, it turns out. I’m just not used to seeing it.

Since I’ve been Orthodox, our church has had a Thanksgiving Day tradition of praying the Thanksgiving Akathist “Glory to God for All Things” together before the day’s festivities begin. For those not familiar, this little prayer was found among the effects of a priest who died in a Soviet prison camp and was believed to be written in part by him. We love to say this at home too–it only takes a few minutes and it’s worth it. Every time without fail, a certain line will catch me by surprise and I find myself choking up. Many times, it’s been “Glory to You for the humbleness of the animals which serve me” (of note: we actually serve our animals unfortunately, not the other way around). Although Thanksgiving is still around the corner, I’ve already been thinking about this line: “Glory to You, sending us failure and misfortune that we may understand the sorrows of others”.

Orthodox Christians say Glory to God for all things and this is what we mean. I was laid off right before Christmas last year, which set the tone for a bleak start to 2025. At that point, we had already decided to apply to seminary for this fall and so I wasted no time starting the job hunt. But I wasn’t prepared for a ruthless, oversaturated, failing job market. Or to be out of work and rejected for 9 months straight. I wasn’t prepared to ask for the first time in my adult life, “How are we going to do Any of This?”

But all of that was a just a taste of bitter financial uncertainty—it was a drop in the bucket. I wish I could say that I trusted God fully and never sweat over it, but that season was streaked with tears and sleepless nights. And I’m grateful for it. It reoriented me to be able to live more simply. From a career perspective, I was able to suss out what’s really important to me—both for this next phase of life and what kind of work I want to do—which I wouldn’t have been able to do if I hadn’t been laid off. Most importantly though, it deepened my compassion, transforming it into the kind that makes me want to give my money and possessions away to others who need them more. It’s important to say thanks at the table. It’s more important to practice gratitude in our day to day lives with open hands and conscientious hearts1.

We’re not going home for Thanksgiving this year, we’ll be celebrating it here with our St. Vlad’s family. Michael is going to attempt to deep fry turkey like my dad, and I’m going to make his grandmother’s beloved Cheesy Potato recipe to share. Even though we won’t see our families, we’ll have these little treasures of home with us. I doubt those of us who are left on campus—all 55 of us—will have to go around the room and say what we’re grateful for, but I have it easy this year.

I close my eyes and let it all wash over me. I’m grateful for my parents, who let us disrupt their lives with our busy toddler and dogs. For the long summer of goodbyes from our Atlanta home, our friends who love us and support us on this journey, the carpet of ruby red Japanese maple leaves all over campus. I’m thankful for a cup full of joy and grief, for the things that break my heart and leave compassion in its place. For the times my ingratitude was rewarded with humility. For the roof over my head, for the animals I serve, for one healthy little boy and another on the way, and for Michael, whose love for us fills every corner of this tiny, blessed, apartment.

Glory to God for all things.

During Reading Week—it’s like a Fall Break, but the seminarians are supposed to be studying (they aren’t)—Michael applied to CPE programs and was accepted to one for this summer! CPE stands for Clinical Pastoral Education, and it’s a nationwide program within hospitals and prisons that helps provide another dimension for spiritual care. Michael needs it for the M. Div program and God-willing, eventual ordination. We’re thankful he’s got that piece figured out.

Earlier this month, we enjoyed a visit from Uncle Ben, Uncle Daniel, and Hiya (Yia-yia). We had a fun day at the New York Botanical Garden in Bronx, a fine day going to Katz Deli (with no subway hiccups), and got to have a bonus day with Mom and Dan when their flights were cancelled. Uncle Ben taught Noah how to crab walk and he’s still been doing it!

Noah Notes

2 is just the most wonderful age.

He loves to talk to baby brother. He asks, “Doing good in there? Are you happy?” The other day, he asked if baby brother was thirsty and tried to give him water (it didn’t work).

It’s all Thomas the Train (thanks, Grandma!), playing excavator (where he scoops up dirt with his bare hands), Franklin, and Curious George. He loves to sing, especially his rendition of Psalm 103, “who has created them all!”.

I hope you all have a great Thanksgiving filled with your own family recipes and Campbell’s soup.

Thanks for reading this far. When we update again, it’ll be from Georgia over Christmas break! Keep us in your prayers as Michael finishes out his first semester.

That’s right. We just finished up a long day in Manhattan with the Earls and now we were on an express train to Connecticut. The calm facade I had carefully constructed melted off my face as fury vibrated from me like a sunburn. I hoped my other half could feel the heat coming off me. There was a man wearing a Fox News Media badge directly to our right, so I couldn’t make a scene in case it was a light news day (Michael later said he believes this man was his own personal guardian angel). This train was bound for Noroton Heights, it was not stopping for two bozos on there by mistake, and there was nothing to do but sit. And wait.

This is ultimately not a story about I found some inner peace on a 50 minute train ride in the wrong direction, by the way. It was not my best moment and I was surprised at myself for falling apart so quickly. Michael and I travel exceptionally well together. We’ve made some blunders—nothing quite this epic—but never blamed each other or wound up fighting about it. Being pregnant, tired, possibly fighting off a weird virus, and holding a sleeping toddler probably had something to do with how irate I got. But I think my anger had to do more with experiencing complete loss of control.

This is a common theme for me—it seems like when I’ve been lulled into a sense that “it’s all going according to plan”, something jerks me back to remind me that I don’t actually have any control. Sometimes it’s in small ways, like being stuck on an express train to New England, and sometimes it’s in bigger, more serious ways. These moments hold up a mirror and expose my real, underlying beliefs about myself. I say I’m pretty resilient, but all it takes is a minor inconvenience to show me otherwise. And in reality, this was extremely minor and overall silly—we were already laughing about it when we boarded the train back to New York. Also, a neighbor was able to run the girls out for us in the meantime (they became instant friends) and we got back only a couple hours later than intended. Minor! And yet—my resilience went up in smoke.

In “Parenting Towards the Kingdom” Dr. Philip Mamalakis says, “Children learn most by how we respond when they misbehave…it is when we finally do sit down to eat, and then someone knocks over the milk…that our children will learn whether patience really is a virtue and whether we really do respect them.” Patience isn’t forged when things are going well, you’ve caught the right train, and everyone is being nice to each other. Patience is acquired through everyday struggle. Children (and adults) learn the meaning of self-control and generosity when they have to wait their turn or share their toys with others. There’s no shortcut to this—it’s gently reinforced at every irritating encounter with something that doesn’t go your way. We teach children how to be patient in small ways so that they learn how to be steadfast adults in difficult seasons.

I too, had a chance to develop some resilience—some patience—while I watched the glorious fall sunset pass by out of the train windows. I’ve experienced loss of control enough times now to not get instantly mad, and yet almost every time, I do. I could have steeled myself, said some Jesus Prayers, and let myself enjoy the view and the Noah snuggles. Instead, I was reminded that I’m a work in progress. It takes a lifetime of struggling to become a real person—someone who’s kind enough, patient enough, and loving enough. There will be another wrong train to get on, another unforeseen circumstance that’ll rattle my carefully laid plans, and I’ll get another chance to practice bending instead of breaking.

The leaves are changing here, Michael did well on his midterms, and we finally got to enjoy some time in the city, minus a slight travel hiccup (see above). Central Park was lovely, and I can’t wait to see it again in a few short months when it’s decked out for Christmas. Aside from the joy of seeing our beloved friends, it was good for both of us to step outside the seminary for awhile. This is a special place, with people that are already becoming special to us—but it’s good to be reminded that there’s life outside too.

My favorite was Little Italy (will 100% be back for more sandwiches and cannoli) in the Bronx and the Pelham Bay Beach Day. But I feel like I could just sit and people watch all day in Manhattan. What are their lives like? What do they do for work? How much is rent? Is this a posh nanny or a really young mom? Was that an actual model with red leather pants getting into a yellow (!) cab? The culture is radically different from anything I’ve ever seen in Atlanta and I’m endlessly enchanted. We barely scratched the surface while we were there and I can’t wait to go back.

Noah Notes

Noah’s latest bit is to sit down at the table and say, “So Mama (or Dada)", I have an idea.” And we’ll ask, what’s your idea? “I’m happy!” he says. It’s always a marvelous idea.

There’s a number of younger boys here who also have an interest in construction trucks, trains, big sticks, and moving dirt from one spot to another in the garden. We see them almost every day. Even though N is more of an introvert, he loves to be around them and they play so well together. It’s incredible to be in a place where we can stumble outside and find friends. I’m thankful for this community.

Speaking of boys, another baby Uhr boy is coming in March! I was pretty shocked to find out it was a boy (I just assumed it would be a girl…for no discernible reason). Noah is excited to have a baby brother and teach him all about Tree Trunk Smash (a silly game Michael invented when Noah was a baby. You put your legs strait up in the air and smash them to the ground. It’s a hit.) and read him his favorite books, like Mighty Mighty Construction Site and Lyle Lyle Crocodile.

I hope there’s nice cool fall weather wherever you are. Thanks for reading our October update! Michael’s cooking the next post already and will share some thoughts from his perspective about the time here so far.

“So how are y’all adjusting?” Is the most common question we get asked from folks, both returning students and first years like us. I find myself asking the same thing of them, “How are you doing? What was it like when you moved?”. Some families have left their homes of 20 years, some have traveled as far as Nevada with small children, and others have had to leave behind beloved pets, knowing they wouldn’t adjust well to apartment living. One family left Germany with little more than the clothes on their backs to come here. Asking about the adjustment is a fair question indeed.

As for us, we’ve been in almost a whole year of adjusting: in July 2024, we officially decided to pursue seminary, began making plans, then I was abruptly laid off in December throwing those plans out the window, prompting us to move in with my parents while we prepared, we downsized, I got a new job, we moved cross-country, and…now we’re here! Adjusting!

The first few weeks felt like a weird church camp vacation, except I was allowed to leave and (most of) our belongings are here. I marveled at the surrounding neighborhood—walkable, if you have strong glutes and calves—the fancy Italian grocery store (quickly discovered it was very out of our budget), the farmer’s markets and lush rural farmland a short drive up the road, and the idea that suburbs could have reliable public transportation. The newness hasn’t worn off yet (we still haven’t made it to this noodle shop I want to go to in Queens), but we’ve started to settle. A cadence is emerging: Michael goes to matins, we have coffee together, Noah and I take the girls on a nice long walk, Michael has class, we play or work, we go to vespers and have dinner together, and do it all again the next day. Interspersed, there’s Greek study sessions, homework, meetings, choir practice, regular chores, and the general chaos that 2 year olds and dogs bring. This semester Michael is taking Biblical Greek, Intro to Old Testament, Liturgical Music, Intro to Liturgics, Church History, and Liturgical Theology. And men’s choir B! I also joined the SVOTS Chorale—a performance choir. Our days are bursting at the seams—between Michael’s classes and my work, we’re playing pass-the-baton with Noah and household duties. Some days, the laundry just sits.

But there’s so much sweetness. In many ways, I feel like I already know the people here, even though we’ve just met. They’re oddly familiar—perhaps it’s because we’re all already family? Our apartment is tiny (the smallest in our building, and as one neighbor continually reminds us, the only one that doesn’t have a patio, thanks Gabe), but it’s lovely and perfect for us. The daily services help give rhythm to our day. People watch each other’s kids, bring over a cup of carrots to someone who needs it for soup, offer each other their time and hands. The herons that stand unmovingly in the creek that runs through campus have become a delightful staple on our walks. The days are growing shorter and the cool evening air is fragrant with the last of the summer blooms.

Noah, the girls, and I made it up here on Dormition (August 15), a few days after Michael. Dorimition is the last feast of the church year before the new year starts on September 1. It’s fitting that we left our old life and entered this new phase at the liturgical end and beginning. We’ve just celebrated the Elevation of the Cross—one of my favorite services—and the words from vespers fill me with hope:

As the Cross is lifted on high,
it urges all of creation
to praise the undefiled Passion of Christ, Who was lifted up on it.
For by the Cross He killed the one who killed us,
and brought us back to life when we were dead.
He adorned us in beauty,
and in His compassion made us worthy to live in heaven.
Therefore we rejoice and exalt His Name,//
and magnify His infinite condescension.

• Elevation of the Cross Vespers, Tone 6

Our hearts are full, we are surrounded by so much grace, and we have so much to look forward to in the year ahead. For right now, I’m thankful to be adjusting well, thankful for the first day of fall, and thankful most of all, for the blessing to be on this journey.

Noah Notes

Noah’s been adjusting very well—in fact, his top favorite thing to say is that he’s “Doing great and very happy!” when you ask him (even if he’s sobbing). Metropolitan Tikhon visited during the Feast of the Elevation of the Cross and since then, he’s been impressed with the “big priest”. He told me one night before bed that he wants to be a “big priest” someday too. Lord have mercy on us.