I was very excited to visit Dormition Monastery for the Dormition this year. It was both my husband and sons first time at a monastery. I expected to show my husband around the grounds after service. I wanted my son to get a chance to explore the children's garden. I anticipated sunshine, the smell of incense carried upon the breeze, and the shining faces of all in attendance.

However, my expectations were not met.

It rained. Not even a warm summer rain, but a cold and bitter storm. The scent of the drenched soil overpowered the light aroma of myrrh and frankincense. We, with our young son, were unprepared for the weather, resulting in us huddled together in order to avoid the ceaseless drizzle and remain warm. And it was not just us. With this being such a large pilgrimage, many young families ended up standing outside the outdoor chapel, praying for a break in the clouds.

I did not know how I would write about this experience. Believe it or not, I am under obedience to my priest to continue writing, and it was specifically requested that I recount my experience on this day to share with my parish. 

In regards to this visit, I have felt that I don't have much to offer. I suppose I will just sum up the highlights of my experience.

My son woke up unusually early that morning. This being the case, we left earlier to ensure he would nap on the hour long drive. This means we were able to arrive in time for Hours, ahead of Divine Liturgy.

The church was relatively empty, and this allowed us to take in the beautiful iconography. We were able to receive a blessing from the bishop and venerate the icons. We were able to participate in the first half of Hours before my son grew restless. Having the newly acquired ability to walk, he wanted to get down and explore. Knowing my husband would appreciate this time to take in the monastery experience, I took my son outside. 

I tried to show him the beautiful mosaics, the flowers, the candles, the icons that were everywhere. He decided against seeing all those beautiful things and wanted to play in the rocks. For every lovely thing he could have experienced, there was a rock he wanted to focus on. I grew tired of constantly setting him back on the path we were walking just for him to run off once more.

Fortunately, this walk allowed us to see some of my family. Both my grandma and tanti (term of endearment for older Romanian women) recognized us and came over to coo at my son. We waved to the local priests as they bustled around in preparation. We were also able to visit with my aunt, uncle and cousins, as well as my parents and sister. 

By the time we found my husband in the midst of the procession to the chapel, it was crowded. My son, still wanting to explore, forced us to forgo our cramped spot under the roof for more space, exposed to the elements. At the best of times, it was drizzling. It poured at the worst. All the while, my underdressed son could not help but put every acorn and pebble in his mouth. In a moment of desperation, we fled to the car.

As we all warmed up, I expressed to my husband that I did not know if it would be worth it to stay for the rest of the service. He assured me that we should stick it out. Once drier, we ventured out into the storm once more. 

Though it was miserable, everyone was generous, with both their space and umbrellas. Eventually, we were able to squeeze back in under the chapel roof, and my son fell asleep just before communion. He slept long after service had ended.