Hold Me

A study was once done that concluded that women need eight to ten “meaningful” hugs a day to be emotionally healthy. I have no idea how exactly they came up with that number, and I’m slightly suspicious of anyone who conducts hugging research (imagine how that experiment went: “Do you feel emotionally healthy? No? Okay, let me hug you again. How about now?”). However, creepy research techniques aside, there’s some truth to the idea that physical touch is essential for emotional stability, especially for women.

One of the challenges of being a single woman in a foreign country (scratch that last part: one of the challenges of being a single woman period) is the lack of daily hugs. Hence, after a month of living in Greece sans embracing anyone, I began to feel an emotional strain and the need for friendly, reassuring arms. In addition, while adventures in new lands are exciting, there is still an emotional drain when dealing with a new culture, home, work environment, etc. Add to that the fact that the last several days held some non-work-related relational ups-and-downs, and by the middle of the week, I wanted to find a spot for a good cathartic cry and some quiet time to pray for guidance.

Thus, on Saturday morning, I packed a backpack and headed for Aegina, the closest island to Athens. My plan was to visit the monastery and go for a swim on the beach—and hopefully spend some time reading the Book of Common Prayer and my Bible.

After swimming for a while, eating lunch, and wandering around the port town in Aegina, I decided that it was time to head towards the monastery. A woman who spoke fairly good English served as translator between me and the bus driver, and I was told that the bus would take me to the monastery. Trusting that information, I boarded, and we headed for Agia Marina. Agia means saint in Greek, so I assumed that when the bus driver said we were going to Agia Marina, he would be dropping us off right at the monastery. However, when he called out “Agia Marina!” and I disembarked from the bus, I looked around and found that there was no monastery anywhere to be seen. I was in the middle of a town—the name of which was Agia Marina. A little ill at ease, I walked down the street and stopped to talk with a vender.

                “Excuse me, can you tell me the way to the monastery?”

                “What monastery?” she responded sharply.

                “The church?”

                “What church?” she said, equally as curt as before.

                “I’m sorry. I must be in the wrong place,” I apologized and walked away.

So now I was on the other side of the island, in the wrong place, without a map, and with no clue where to go. It’s hard to describe exactly—unless one has lived in a foreign country—the level of panic that begins to set in when one feels lost in a different country. I walked aimlessly towards the beach, and began praying for divine help. After coming to a dead end, I turned around and noticed a travel agency behind me. With a sense of relief, I went in and there on the counter was a brochure for Agia Marina with a picture of a monastery inside. So I am in the right place after all, I thought. I queried the British lady in the agency for directions to the monastery. She said that most people take a bus, but those are few and far in between, but if I was “feeling energetic” I could walk up, and she gave me directions. Thanking her for her help, I trotted off down the road.

However, I discovered quickly that “feeling energetic” was a nice way of saying, “You’re going to have to climb a mountain.” Really. The monastery is on the top of a mountain—and the path up is rocky and very uneven. Having no idea how far I would have to go, I stopped a few times on the way up, feeling exhausted, out of breath, and discouraged. The path went up and up, and every time I suspected that it was ending, a new turn revealed further heights to climb. Eventually, a sign appeared in the distance, and I was relieved for a few moments until I got close enough to read the sign and found that it was for a restaurant in Agia Marina. But just beyond that the path ended and ran smack into a paved highway. Unfortunately, the signs at the highway were faded, and the road split in two directions, and the old panic and frustration of being lost set in again. After a little more praying (some people are tempted to treat God like a vending machine. I think I’m more tempted to treat him like Mapquest), I figured out the sign and took a left. Again, the road was long with multiple turns, and I began to be concerned that night would find me wandering around on a mountain in Greece.

There are two options when one feels lost: keep going or turn around. I’m of the keep going persuasion, so I decided to trot onward. After a little while, the ruins of a temple came into view, and I knew from the British lady’s instructions that the monastery must not be far off. Sure enough, there was a sign for Agios Minas, so I followed it, heading down another long road and hoping that I was close.

Eventually, the monastery came into view, and with great relief I stopped at the gate and pulled out my shawl to cover my head. Waving sheepishly at the nuns as I entered, I moved towards the chapel. One nun got up and began chattering to me in Greek. I realized that she wanted me to stop and adjust my shawl so that my back was covered. After she fiddled with the cloth for a bit, she opened the door to the chapel for me.

The chapel was dark, but lit just enough so that the icons, crosses, and gold filigree were visible. It was extraordinarily beautiful, even in the dimness. I crossed myself and sat down in a chair close to the front.
   

For a moment, I wondered what to do. I had finally arrived, but what was I going to do here besides sit? How long was I going to stay? But then, in the stillness, I began to cry. Just a little at first—a tear or two. Then I started to weep like I have not wept in at least a year—not loud sobbing, but simply the quiet overflow of my heart, the feelings that I try so hard to manage all the time by trying to look brave when I’m not.

I don’t know how long I sat there, but I think the nun realized I was crying because she closed the chapel door when the noise outside grew louder. My prayers were neither profound nor beautiful. I simply felt like a little child, raising her arms to her father, crying, “Hold me! Please, please hold me.”

After I had wept for a while, other visitors entered, and I decided to go. I hadn't received any special guidance, any profound onward leading, but as I left the monastery, I noticed that the sun had come out from behind the clouds, and my heart was lighter than when I entered. And I was happy that I had found the monastery after all, despite miscommunications and unclear directions. There were just enough signs and British ladies along the way.

This morning, I was looking up “monastery Aegina” online, and discovered that the monastery I ended up at was not the one that the island is famous for—the one I originally thought to see. The person who had told me to go see it had simply said, “The Monastery”—and I had no idea that there were two on the island. It seems that I actually ended up in a different, more out of the way place and should have gotten off the bus sooner than I did. I have a strong suspicion, though, that the little monastery on the mountain was where I actually needed to be. It was quieter than the main tourist site, and maybe—just maybe—I needed to experience the uncertainty of climbing a mountain and looking for signs.

Is there any moral to this story? Not really. I had a hard time finding what I thought I was looking for, but a few signs and the tenacity to keep walking still got me where I needed to be, even if it was not where I was aiming for originally. It was a relief to sit and cry in a monastery. Sometimes I need an embrace, and no one is around. Sometimes all I can do is weep and call on my maker. Sometimes the most I am capable of praying is “Hold me. Please, please hold me.”

Sometimes that is all that needs to be prayed.