The priest at St. George told me to arrive early that morning for the service.
As I crested the hill above the church, the sun was coming up.
That fresh, clean, morning light hit the white roves of more than 100 pilgrims standing around the edge of the church. It was only the reflection of the sun, but they seemed to be giving off their own light.
A deacon came over to me and adjusted my head scarf to the "Ethiopian style" and smiled. Then pointed up the hill instead of down toward the church.
These days, when someone point, I go.
At the top of the hill was the sound of running water, the sounds of splashing and a woman screaming. The water poured from a pipe coming out of the side of the mountain. It poured into a cinderblock stall with a metal door that looked like a shower at the public pool.
But behind the door was priest. It was holy water, healing water.
And the woman screaming was possessed by demons someone said. And the priest was pouring water over her and yelling, "Get out! Get out!"
And she yelled, "It's gone!"
And all the people sitting quietly in line for their turn seemed completely unfazed by this. They sat holding babies to be blessed or with empty plastic bottles to take some water home.
Next to me, I could hear the clack, clack, clack of an old woman and her wooden prayer beads.
On the walk home, I found myself in the middle of a funeral for an elderly woman.
Her coffin sat at the base of a giant Sycamore tree in the center of town. Three priests stood over it, shaking rattles and chanting.
Everyone was dressed in white.
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