Our day started at the ungodly hour of 4 a.m. In the early darkness, with the starry skies above, my second godson, Vasilli (almost 80 years old), and I joined pilgrims from Greece, Russia, Ukraine, Romania and Poland to sit, stand, make the sign of the cross and kiss icons while monks chanted age-old Byzantine hymns and prayers that have remained unchanged since the birth of Christianity.
It was August ’11 and we were guests in Pantokratoros, one of the 20 monasteries on Mt. Athos (Agion Oros), the spiritual center of Greece, the birthplace of my parents. The pilgrims were young and old — grandfathers, fathers and sons (no women are allowed on Mt. Athos). I marveled to see the pilgrimage being shared by three generations of a family.