Happy Easter/Честит Великден.

Easter has gotten better over the years for me. It started out with Easter bunnies and chocolate and what not. And I would also get a pair of socks in my easter basket under the pile of fake grass that would get everywhere and stick to the carpet.

I started figuring out later that Easter had some religious importance for us Christians, just like Christmas did. But on my mission it seemed to gain in importance and relevance. In Bulgaria Easter is called "Velikden," or "Great day." It's a major Eastern Orthodox holiday. All day and night the bakeries bake this amazing sweet bread with a sugary glaze on top called "kozunak." When they dye Easter eggs, they use them to battle each other by slamming the eggs together. It's so fun. I did the same thing with my family, and later with my friend Becky today.

These pictures are from my mission. Obviously.

People go to church at midnight and light candles and walk around the churches, while they listen to the priests recite scriptures. And they say to each other, all day on Easter, "'Hristos vozkrese'-- 'Voistina voskrese!'" Which means "'Christ is risen'-- 'Truly He is risen!" So wonderful that their culture celebrates the miracle of Christ's resurrection in that way.

Really, the importance that their culture and religion put on Easter helped me love it more. Instead of trying to talk about what it means to me, I will put this poem here. It's one that I read and struggled to understand and eventually learned to love-- and strongly identify with-- in England almost a year ago. (Sigh.) It's not your average Easter poem, but it's crazy how much it seems to describe my spiritual life. I admit that I got the poetry idea from reading a friend's blog. Don't judge me for copying, if you read this, Emma.

THE CORONET
by Andrew Marvell


WHEN for the thorns with which I long, too long,
With many a piercing wound,
My Saviour's head have crowned,
I seek with garlands to redress that wrong,—
Through every garden, every mead,
I gather flowers (my fruits are only flowers),
Dismantling all the fragrant towers
That once adorned my shepherdess's head :
And now, when I have summed up all my store,
Thinking (so I my self deceive)
So rich a chaplet thence to weave
As never yet the King of Glory wore,
Alas ! I find the Serpent old,
That, twining in his speckled breast,
About the flowers disguised, does fold
With wreaths of fame and interest.
Ah, foolish man, that wouldst debase with them,
And mortal glory, Heaven's diadem !
But thou who only couldst the Serpent tame,
Either his slippery knots at once untie,
And disentangle all his winding snare,
Or shatter too with him my curious frame,
And let these wither—so that he may die—
Though set with skill, and chosen out with care ;
That they, while thou on both their spoils dost tread,
May crown Thy feet, that could not crown Thy head.