Read my columns

"The Handmaiden, published as a 64-page journal, has been serving Orthodox women by offering them fresh content to inspire and illumine their hearts. With the Handmaiden of the Lord, the Holy Theotokos, as its guide, The Handmaiden strives to be a beacon of light, a place where Orthodox Christian women and others who are interested in Orthodox life and spirituality can come together to learn, share, relate, and grow."

I've been writing for the Handmaiden for a few years now, first as an occasional contributer, and then as a book reviewer for them. I've recently taken over the Heroines of the Faith column, about the women who've made a difference in Orthodox life, worship and spirituality. Many of them are saints, recognized by the church for the strength of their belief, and the way they lived their lives. Some are not, yet, but still have lessons to teach those of us struggling from day to day to be faithful witnesses to Christ's love and mercy in the world.

Some of my book reviews are here, and my first two columns on Mothers of the Faith are here.

Below is the first piece I ever wrote for the Handmaiden.

The scent of the holy myrrh oil fills my nostrils as it must have those of the women preparing My Lord's body. Am I being buried, then? Is this what Chrismation is, the burial with Our Lord on the darkest day of the world?

Father says that when we gather for Liturgy, we are entering God's time - we are enacting, not re-enacting, the Passion. Sometimes, in Vespers, or during the Anaphora, I can feel the timelessness, the eternity, the crowds of saints and angels entering with Father and the Gospel in the Little Entrance, the waves of song and prayer washing against my skin, filling the church and spilling through the roof and walls and windows into the world.

But tonight, on the Feast of the Annunciation, I am rooted in the here and now, in the beautiful little chapel the Anglicans have lent us. The soft movement and breathing of my soon-to-be brothers and sisters surrounds me. There is no sense of otherworldliness. I do not feel as if I am with Him in His death for I am too focused on what is happening in the physical. I have waited so long for this, ten years or more, and sometimes despair filled me. Chrismation has come in God's time, though, and now my whole self yearns to be joined with the Church. It is no wonder I cannot sense eternity tonight - I want to store all of this up and ponder it in my heart, like the Theotokos.

I want to feel it - the brush strokes, the oil on my skin, the itch as it creeps down my forehead, the silkiness on my hands. I want to sense the tiny golden spoon hard against my lips, filling my mouth with the body and blood, wine and bread. What will they feel like? How will they taste?

I want to smell it - the odour of myrrh soaking, like the hymns, into my physical self, so that all of me, spirit, soul and body, becomes consecrated to Him and His church, the clouds of incense that fill the chapel (and they are clouds tonight - the server shows his joy by his generosity with the incense). The occasional sweet whiff of honey from the beeswax candles, the scent of the women's perfumes under the myrrh and incense. And anchoring it all, the bitter, dark and heavy fragrance of the coffee grounds, waiting to be brewed.

I want to see it - the blue vestments and gold vessels, the grey carpet and brown railings. I want to see the white and olive and golden faces raised in song, each transfigured by their own responses to the Annunciation, and the auburn, and grey and russet hair as heads bow in prayer.

I want to hear it - the altos and sopranos singing the psalms, the jingle of the censer, the rustle of vestments and the clinking of vessels, the reverent, soothing tenor of the priest as he prays, the coughs and movement and breathing of the congregation.

I want to say it - all through my catachumenate I have not said the confession before communion; I believe it, but could not partake. I wanted to save the prayer for tonight, and excitement rises in me as the words fill my mouth and spill out into the room.

We are first to communicate tonight, and my family goes before me; I want to see them receive before I do. I hear "The servant of God, Alain Gregory . . . the servant of God Mark John . . . the handmaiden of God Arwen Tatiana . . ." My family - my heart. If the world ends now, they are safe. I approach the priest. He says, "The handmaiden of God, Beverley Macrina . . . " and I don't hear anymore. The spoon touches my mouth and I am shocked - a painless jolt fills my entire body with a sweetness and warmth and peace I always knew existed but of which I had experienced, until this moment, only the palest echoes.

Before I know it, I'm standing at the back again. What did it taste like? I don't remember - I was too filled with that sweet shock. I am still reverberating with it. Did I even partake? I must have, Father wouldn't have let me leave without. But I don't remember anything past the spoon at my lips. Did I wipe my mouth? I don't remember. Did I say Amen? Was I supposed to? I don't remember anything but the shock, and the sweetness flooding through me.

As the service concludes, I slowly return to the chapel; the incense, the colours, the quiet movement of my new brothers and sisters. By the time I venerate the cross and receive Father's welcome hug, I am present, fully present, and know that eternity does break through even when we are most rooted in the here and now.