I was raised Greek Orthodox. I find the experience of church safe and uplifting. Greek Orthodox churches, especially the small, island ones that I was raised in, are exquisite. Domed ceilings are painted in vivid shades of lapis and ochre and vermilion. Icons of the saints are burnished in majestic gold. The smell of Myrrh rises up from the old wooden pews. My most beloved churches are the Cycladic ones, utterly minimal from the outside, a jewel box on the inside. I was married in a Cycladic church, and we christened our first child in a Cycladic church. On entering a church, I was taught to do the sign of the cross three times. I’d light candles and pray for the health of my family. I’d kiss hand-painted icons of saints. And at times when communion was being offered, I’d drink sweet wine from a large silver spoon and share chunks of bread with friends and strangers. As a child, I’d look around at the clusters of people sipping from the same spoon. wiping their mouths with the same cloth, and I’d think, “we’re all safe from germs because we’re in a church.” It was naive of me to think that way, and there are a great many Orthodox adults who still think that way. I don’t go to church very often anymore. I know there are plenty of beautiful Orthodox churches in Toronto, but my experience of church is tethered to my experience of Greece. My homeland, and heritage. But when I do go to church, I have found my own ways of respecting the church’s rituals, while feeling comfortable about what the rituals ask of me. I don’t take communion, and I don’t bring my children to communion, because it no longer brings me the comfort it once did. I light a candle, always just one, and pray for the health of my family. Whenever I smell frankincense and myrrh, wherever I am in the world, I am immediately transported to the majesty and wonder of a Greek Orthodox church.