It was springtime. The almond trees were still in flower, transforming the valley into a sea of pinkish white, drowning the village in blossom. The mud houses were built on either side of the valley, the river flowing peacefully in between the two hills that enveloped the village. Serene environment, idyllic…But the freshly dug grave in the cemetery, told a different story…A story that kept coming back, crowding, clouding my mind…

The year was 1958 and I was nine years old, living in a village, in Cyprus. There was no electricity and no running water. In fact, every summer, we did not even have enough drinking water in the village, so we had to buy it -very cheaply- from those lucky enough to own a well. The alternative was to wait at one of the five taps that supplied the village, and gather the dripping water drop by drop, in order to fill enough pots of water to see us through the next day.

It might sound romantic today, but the reality was tough. Very tough! We did not live in squalor, but most of the villagers lived in poverty. Everyone had to contribute to the family finances, even the children! One of the ways was to tend the goats. Most families possessed a goat or two, from which they produced their cheese. It mostly fell to the children to take the goats out to eat, in the family’s fields or on common land, such as the riverbanks. To allay boredom, we would pair up with our friends and let the goats graze in each other’s fields, whilst we played. I usually paired up with Aristides, my cousin, and my best friend.

Aristides was a year older than I was. He did not grow up in the village, however. His family lived in Nicosia, and only came to the village about three years back. He was such a good-looking boy, I could not believe it when he befriended me. So I set up a little test for him. I pretended to be cross with him, without reason. He became very upset about it, and cried. When I saw the tears, I felt really unworthy of his friendship, and I asked him to forgive my stupidity. But he looked so happy when I told him I was not really upset, that I knew there and then, we would be friends for life!

And we were! Alas, we did not realise how short a lifelong friendship can be! For Aristides became very ill, soon after my little test. He did mention in the past that he tired easily, but I never paid much attention. Suddenly, however, not only did he stop coming out with me, he did not attend school either. I visited him at his home. He spent most of his time in bed, looked very pale, and kept complaining of tiredness. His parents took him to see a doctor, repeatedly, but all they would tell him, was that there was nothing to worry about, and that he would get well soon.

Aristides never got better; in fact, he was going from bad to worse. His strength seemed to be draining away from him day by day. He found it difficult to get out of bed; he was withering in front of our eyes. Eventually he was taken to the hospital, in Nicosia.

I could not visit him in hospital. To visit, my father had to take time off work, and he could not afford to do that. My father did bring me a letter from Aristides, however. It was given to him by Aristide’s dad. It was the first letter I ever had from anybody, and when I was given it, I sat on my bed, opened the envelope carefully, and proceeded to read it immediately.

‘Dear Michael,

I hope that my letter will find you in better health than it leaves me. I’m lying in bed in the hospital. I can’t get up anymore. Doctors come and doctors go, but I never feel any better. They give me pills, they give me syrups, they treat me with machines, but there is no improvement. Sometimes, when they give me a sleeping pill, I wish that I don’t ever wake up again…I had enough of pain…

Everyone is lying to me. Even writing this letter is an effort. I keep telling my mum that if I’m dying, I’d rather die in the village than in here. I don’t know if I’m going to see you again but I hope to…

Keep well Michael.

Your friend

Aristides.

I wiped my tears, folded the letter, and put it back in the envelope. I had only just realised that Aristides was dying. The friend that I chose with such care, the friend that proved himself, the true friend, would soon be no more.

Two weeks or so later, Aristides was brought back to the village. Apparently, there was nothing more the doctors could do for him, except for prescribing medication to ease the pain. They fulfilled his wish…they sent him home to die. I went to see him the first night he returned.

I could hardly believe my eyes! He was a shadow of his old self; he had shrunk, and what remained was skin, covering the bones. He seemed to be asleep; I approached the bed quietly and gently put his hand in mine. His eyelids opened at the touch. He looked at me and a sparkle of joy lit his face. A smile formed and then dwindled. It was too difficult to hold. His withered fingers lightly squeezed my hand and I pressed both of mine against his.

‘I’m glad to see you’, I whispered.

‘I was expecting you’, he managed to reply, but his voice was almost inaudible. The cancer had robbed him of his voice too!

I sat there holding his hand, telling him about what happened in school: which of the other pupils were punished for not doing their homework, who was late, who got top marks; as if any of it mattered! I told him about the excursion we had, and the link-up with the school of the neighbouring village. I told him about the impromptu athletic games that took place on that day, and how our village came out on top. Aristides would interrupt me now and then, asking for clarification, wanting to know, as if the information mattered; as if he could use it where he was going. I then told him about the wood that the boys gathered in the churchyard, ready for the approaching Easter Sunday, and the burning in effigy of Judas the Iscariot. The stuffed image of Judas was already prepared and ready. I told him about the bangers that one of the boys hid in Judas, so that when the fire reached it, it would explode from the inside.

I do not know how long I stayed. Aristides kept closing his eyes; when I stopped talking, he would press my hand as if asking me to continue. His bed was in the large hallway of their house, and his mum was going back and forth. She approached the bed to check if Aristides needed anything. His eyes were shut once more.

‘He must be tired Michael’, she said. ‘Let him sleep darling. Come back tomorrow’.

I shook my head.

‘Rest Aristides’, I said turning to my friend. ‘I will see you again tomorrow’.

I felt a very weak squeeze as I withdrew my hand from his. I fought back the urge to cry, thanked his mum for letting me see him, and left. I was only nine, but even a baby would be able to tell Aristide’s days were numbered.

I did visit him again the next day, only this time my parents came along to see him as well. There was no change; well, not for the better, anyway.

‘He is not even going to make it to Easter, is he?’ I asked my parents later, on the way home.

They looked at each other, but did not answer.

‘I am not a baby any more dad! Tell me the truth. Can’t the doctors do anything for him?’

‘No son, they can’t. No man can save him now’.

‘What do you mean ‘no man’? What else can save him?’

‘Nothing on this earth, only God. Only a miracle can save him’.

‘Is that possible? Can there be a miracle?’

‘Of course; it is not the first time that doctors gave up on their patients, thinking they would die, and then they pull through. When that happens, it is a miracle. They do not happen very often, however.’

‘So, if God wants to, he can perform a miracle and cure Aristides?’

‘Well, yes, it is in God’s power.’

‘But sometimes God performs a miracle and sometimes he doesn’t?’

‘Yes…But miracles really don’t happen every day.’

‘But what makes God decide to perform a miracle?’

‘That I do not know son; but I suppose that prayer, and a lot of faith, can help.’

‘And if one has faith and prays a lot, a miracle could happen?’

‘I could not guarantee it son; I’m not God after all. But don’t you remember that passage from the Bible that says ‘…if you have faith as big as a mustard seed, you can say to this hill ‘go from here to there’ and it will go…’1

‘Yes, I remember you telling me this before’, I replied. ‘And I will pray for my friend.’

‘We will all pray Michael’, said my mum.

We walked the rest of the way in silence. But we did not have much time to pray as a little later the church bells begun tolling. Dang, dang, dang…dang, dang, dang… I knew what the slow tolling meant; I rung the bells to announce a death myself in the past, at the request of the priest of course. Now, I run to my bed in tears. Mum came and sat with me for a while, trying to comfort me, telling me how much she also loved Aristides, but ‘if it was God’s will to take him to paradise, then we should accept it’.

Mum left me to grieve for my friend, but what she said about God’s will, kept going round and round in my mind. Surely, God did not wish for Aristide’s death! He was not a bad boy, he was not a sinner! So why did he allow him to die? Was God himself ruthless, merciless? And why should we not question His will, if it was so obviously wrong?

I must have slept for a while because when Aristides came back in my thoughts, I had the answer. I knew why God in His wisdom had taken him away! I was surprised I never thought of it before. It was so simple: Aristides died on Maundy Thursday. One of the Gospels read out in church on Maundy Thursday, refers to the death of Jesus on the cross. I knew this because my dad told me earlier, emphasizing the reason why we had to attend vespers that night. Well, if Aristides died that night, he would be buried on Good Friday, just like Jesus, and surely, he would rise for the dead after three days, on Easter Sunday, again just like Jesus!

Dad did say that we needed to pray, so I did. As for faith, I knew I believed! It was imbedded in me since before I remembered. So all I needed to do was pray. Maybe, Aristide’s death was God’s way of testing my faith in Him, just as I tested Aristide’s friendship to me! I knew that he would not find me wanting, however, for I truly believed. There were other examples of dead people coming back to life, after all! Lazarus, for example. 

There was a seed of doubt in my mind, however. I could remember my dad and the village priest sometimes talking about ‘being pure at heart’. I was not quite sure whether I was ‘pure at heart’. I sometimes got into fights with other boys, and there was a particular one, Stelios, who picked on me all the time and I did not like him at all. I also stole fruit from some trees that did not belong to us, and once, I used a razor blade to cut part of the seam of the jacket of another boy that was standing in front of me in church. I think I did that because I was jealous. That was a beautiful suit the boy was wearing, and I never had a suit in my life. Again, however, if I admitted my sins and asked for forgiveness, surely God would forgive me. If Jesus forgave those that put him on the cross, why should he not forgive me?

The funeral took place on Friday. There was hardly a dry eye to be seen. At the cemetery, his mum tried to jump in the grave more than once, and her husband had to keep a close eye on her all the time. Her wailing must’ve been heard in the next village! But although tears came to my eyes as well, they were caused by the pain and the sorrow I could see around me, rather than the loss of my friend. For I was not worried about him! I knew! I knew that my faith, my prayers, the confession of my sins and my sincere repentance, would bring him back. All I had to do, was to wait until Easter Sunday!

There was a lot of praying done that Friday and Saturday. Every free moment was devoted to it. Other misdemeanours came to mind as well, like the time I did not know the answer to a question at school and peeped to see what the boy in front of me wrote. There was also the guilt from the pleasure I felt when I was standing next to Andrea, one of the girls in my class. As these transgressions came to mind, I asked for forgiveness, praying that my sins should not be allowed to prevent the resurrection of Aristides.

Saturday was the hardest day to get over. The hours just did not pass away fast enough. I had no chores to do and I decided to visit Aristide’s grave. It took me but a few minutes to get there, as it was not too far away from my house. I stood in front of the grave, looking at the picture of Aristides, which his parents left. In it, Aristides was wearing his beautiful white suit, looking like an angel.

 ‘I never told you I thought you looked like an angel, did I, Aristides?’ I found myself murmuring. ‘Well, you must be a real angel now; you couldn’t be anything else with a heart like yours. But don’t worry. You will soon be back with us, and we will laugh and play together again. You don’t have long to wait now. Only a few more hours until midnight. When the priest says ‘Christos Anesti’2, you’ll come back with him too. You’ll see. I looked it up in the Bible. It was Jesus himself that said if you have faith as much as a mustard seed you can move a hill. And I have faith Aristides!’ 

I heard a noise and turned round. His parents were coming through the gates of the cemetery. I could see his mother was still sobbing. I walked towards them. As I approached them, his mum put her arms around me. I looked up; sorrow and despair resided in her brown eyes. She kissed my forehead, and her lips felt hot on my skin. She held me like that for a minute or so, although the poignancy of the moment and the stillness of sounds around us made it feel like an eternity. When she opened her arms, I thought of telling her about Arirstide’s resurrection, but then changed my mind. It would be best if it was a surprise. I said goodbye and went home.

It was time at last. I wore my Sunday cloths and walked to the church. The priest had not arrived yet. I was early because there was competition for the three boys allowed in the sanctuary, with the priest, and I did not want to miss out. Not tonight. When I saw the priest approaching, I rung the church bells, letting the villagers know that the service was about to begin.

Not much later, the service was in full swing. The choruses were singing, the church was packed to the brim, and father-Andreas was fixing the tri-candles, preparing for the midnight hour. Five minutes before midnight, all the lights were put out, and church and sanctuary were immersed in darkness. Not a single lantern, not a candle’s flame to be seen. The church overflowing with worshippers, but not a sound to be heard. Everyone waiting for the Light, the Holy Light, which symbolised Christ’s Resurrection…

I was waiting too. I knew something no one else knew! Jesus was not the only one to be resurrected tonight. I knew what would happen because I believed and I prayed, and then I prayed some more. My faith was much more than a mustard seed, I believed wholeheartedly. Any minute now, it would happen, and everyone would learn the power of faith and prayer. Any minute now, father-Andreas would walk towards the main door of the sanctuary with the Holy Light, singing and inviting the congregation to light their candles from his tri-candle, and take the Holy Light with them to their homes and to their hearts. And at that moment, as the priest was proclaiming the resurrection of Jesus, Aristides would make his appearance as well.

I heard a match being struck, and then the candles held by father-Andreas acquiring a flame, one after another. My stomach begun to churn and gurgle, and I could not understand why. I always thought that it was our heart that was affected by intense anticipation. George, the sexton, opened the sanctuary door, and father-Andreas walked towards it, candles alight, his singing drowning the noise from the surge of the crowd. Every-one wanted to be first to the Holy flame of the tri-candles.

Father-Andreas looked different that night. He was wearing his celebratory costume. The white robes hanged well on him, almost touching the floor. The candles were white, his long, well-trimmed beard was also white, his hair was white. Aristide’s white suit came to my mind… ‘Come and get the Light…’, father Andreas was singing…

It was time! Aristides should be here! But I could not see him anywhere. He certainly did not appear in the sanctuary. I opened the side door and searched for him where he usually stood when he wasn’t with me in the sanctuary. He was not there either. I located his father, cladded in black, unshaven, sad looking. Aristides was not with him, nor with his mother, whom I could see a little further away, head bowed, probably still sobbing. I closed the door and sat on one of the chairs. I needed to think!

A very loud bang was heard from the yard. It must’ve been the explosion from bangers inside the Judas effigy. Maybe he was outside. I opened the side door, leading to the churchyard and rushed out. Many youngsters were standing around, laughing and joking, feeding the fire and keeping warm. I could see him! There he was in his white suit, his hands raised to the fire…I could only see his back of course, but it was him! No one else in our age group had a white suit. I run towards him, shouting out his name: ‘Aristides…’ 

Everyone in the churchyard turned towards me. They all looked at me as if I had gone mad. When ‘Aristides’ turned, he wasn’t Aristides. It was Theodoros, whose father bought him the white suit for Easter, as I was told later. I said nothing; I turned and went back in the church. Doubts begun to creep into my mind. But if this miracle was going to happen, there was no room for doubts. Faith, faith, faith! Jesus was not heartless! He would, WOULD, bring him back!

Father Andreas was still standing in the middle of the sanctuary’s door, conducting the celebration of the resurrection, chanting joyfully before and after the ‘Christos Anesti…’ of the choruses. Only the whole congregation now joined the chanting. ‘Christos Anesti…’

A little later, I checked again to see if he was in the church. He wasn’t. But I saw many people leaving the church, going home. The service hadn’t finished of course. After the resurrection service, there followed the regular Sunday service. Most of the people could not stay for another two hours or so until that finished. Seeing them leaving, however, brought a thought to my mind. Why was I expecting Aristides to appear in church? That was stupid of me! He wouldn’t appear just like that, out of nowhere. No! He would come out of the cemetery and would go home to clean up. If he only just arose from the dead together with Jesus, he wouldn’t have enough time to go home, change, and come to church! No. He would now be at home, waiting for his parents. Oh! What a surprise it would be for them! What a surprise!

When the service finished, I went back to the churchyard, near the bonfire. I wanted to waste a few minutes, until Aristide’s parents left. My parents came to find me, as I knew they would, but by then, his parents had walked off. I was watching.

‘Come on Michael, time to go’, said my dad.

‘Christos Anesti father’, I said kissing his hand.

‘Alithos Anesti3 son’, he replied. 

I also exchanged the traditional Easter greeting with my mother. I had to do everything correctly if I was going to get my way.

‘Can we pass from Aristide’s home first father?’

‘Why?’

‘Please father, it is very important’.

‘Michael, it is the middle of the night. People don’t go visiting in the middle of the night. Besides, their house is at the other side of the village. It’s out of our way. Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.’

‘Please father, it’s not that far. And they are only just now going home themselves. It’s not as though we are going to wake them up, is it?’

He hesitated.

‘Please, father. Aristides was my best friend. Please!’

I did not very often get my own way with my father, but when it really mattered, he usually allowed himself to see things differently. So it was, that a few minutes later I was knocking on their door. I saw the oil lamp light flicker to life, and Aristide’s dad came to the door.

‘Hello Michael, what brings you here?’ he asked, braving a half smile.

‘Where is he?’ I asked, dispensing with the formalities and the Easter greetings.

‘Where is who Michael?’ he asked perplexed.

 I did not answer. I brushed passed him and into the hallway, where Aristide’s bed was. The poor man followed me anxiously. His wife also appeared through her bedroom door.

‘What is the matter Michael?’ she asked with concern.

I reached Aristide’s bed and pulled the sheets, hoping that he lay there, asleep.

‘Where is he? Where is Aristides?’ I shouted, realising that there was no miracle.

‘You know where he is Michael! You know son’. It was his mother talking.

‘Yes, I know. But he wasn’t supposed to stay there! I have been praying for him for the past three days, I have been praying hard. Can’t you see? Can’t any of you see? He was buried the same time as Jesus, on Good Friday. Had my prayers been answered, he would have arisen at the same time as him!’

My parents were also standing in the hallway now. They were all bewildered. No one said a word. I turned to my father.

 ‘Miracles do happen, you said. All you need is faith, as much as a mustard seed, you said, and with that, you can move mountains, you said. Well, I didn’t want to move a mountain; all I wanted was to bring my friend back to life. Like Lazarus. He was in the grave for four days, not three, and Jesus gave him life again, they tell us. Three days is less than four, so it should be easier! And I believed! I believed everything you told me, everything I read in the Bible, every little thing! That is why I thought this little thing was possible.’

I sat on my friend’s bed; the two women sat on either side of me, trying to wipe my tears. But I was looking for answers, not sympathy. I stood up again.

‘Did you pray for him to come back?’ I was addressing everybody.

‘You, his parents; you loved him. Did you pray for him?’

‘Yes Michael, we prayed for his soul’, said his dad.

‘You prayed for his soul; you all prayed for his soul, I suppose. I was the only stupid one praying for him to come back. But of course, you all knew this was impossible. Miracles like that don’t happen, because there is no one to perform them, is there?’

‘Don’t blaspheme Michael. Of course there is’. It was my father.

‘No there isn’t! There is no God, no Jesus, and no Virgin Mary. Whether I had prayed to Jesus or Athena, the same thing would happen. Nothing! Because neither of them is God, there is no God. God only exists in the minds of silly little boys like me!’

I rushed out of the house and my parents followed. When we arrived home, I went straight to bed. Dad sat next to me, placing his hand on my hair.

‘I am very proud of you Michael’, he said lovingly. ‘Despite what you said, I am proud of you. I’ll never forget this day, and probably neither will you. Your pain will ease eventually son. And Aristides, since he had you as a friend, well, he’ll never really die. Because his memory will always live on in your thoughts and in your heart.’

His words were soothing. I sat up and placed my head against his chest. I still felt like crying; I still felt let down by God. But my dad was there, and he was real; and I knew that despite our differences, and we had many, when I asked for his help, I would get it!

1. Matthew 17, 20.
2. It means Jesus has arisen.
3. Truly he has arisen. Used as reply to Christos Anesti.