Învierea mea, aici, cu Egon

Tonight, the silence feels deeper than usual. Even the church bells seem to be holding their breath. Inside me, a rare stillness settles, the kind that only a sacred night like this can bring.

Egon asked if we were going to church. He said it simply, without insistence, but there was a quiet light in his eyes. Pure, patient, undemanding. In that moment, I knew we would go.

Our hearts were already praying.

The streets were filled with humble shadows, people drawn by the same longing for light.

As we stepped into the churchyard, memories flooded in, all the Easters of my childhood: my father, my mother and me, a small girl wondering if God was really there, hidden in the warm darkness.

But tonight, I was the mother.
I was the one holding my child's hand.
And he, Egon, was the one watching the candles, the flame, the priest, the icons, perhaps wondering the same thing I once did.

And yes, He was there.
In Egon’s eyes.
In the flame we received together.
In the moment I lit his candle and he looked at me with that silent gratitude only children can offer.

I realized then that I wasn’t only holding a flame in my hands, I was holding a living inheritance. Faith isn't about ritual alone, but about how we learn to love, quietly, simply.

We carried the light for those we love.

For my mother, watching us from beyond. For my father. For Anais and Rania, sleeping peacefully at home. For myself, still healing, slowly, through love, and through this walk into the night, hand in hand with my son.

And I prayed.
May I never forget what I felt in that moment.

This is my Resurrection. Here, now, with Egon.

🧡