Easter Sunday has arrived.
Across Cyprus, the morning starts early. Ovens are already warm, tables are being set, and somewhere, two yiayiades are arguing over who makes the best flaounes. The first coffees are poured, the first calls are made- “Christos Anesti”- and the replies come back, warm and familiar.
Before the day fills up, there’s a moment. A pause, a quiet kind of joy.
Last night, we stood in the dark, candles unlit, waiting. And then, all at once, light. It spreads quickly- one flame to another-until the whole space is glowing. It’s simple. It always has been. But it never feels ordinary.
Easter isn’t just about what comes later: the food, the laughter, the long tables of eggs and chocolate and lamb. It begins in that moment. In the shift from silence to celebration. From waiting to knowing.
The story is the same every year, but it never really gets old.
Because it speaks to something we all recognise: that even after the longest night, light returns. Not loudly, not all at once, but enough to change everything. After all, 2,000 years ago that light changed the world.
So whether today is loud or quiet, crowded or calm, whether it’s spent around a full table or in your own space, there’s something worth holding onto.
A pause. A breath. A beginning.
Christ is risen. He is risen indeed.
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