I remember times when people knew nothing but God, work, and decency.

Mykhailo Bilas:  I remember times when people knew nothing but God, work, and decency.

Originally published in “Zhyva Voda” Magazine, No. 3

Winter lingers outside, though the calendar claims it is March—the threshold of spring. Even as the sun begins to stir, it cannot yet conquer the heavy drifts blanketing the rooftops, orchards, and fields. The frost holds firm. Looking at the snow-clogged roads, we cannot help but wonder: will it thaw before Palm Sunday and the Easter holidays that fast approach? But all rests in God’s hands. We shall wait for His sign.

For now, it is Great Lent. To be honest, it is no longer what it once was—losing the profound spirit and meaning it held years ago when I was a child in the village of Medvezha. My father worked as a forester there, and even now, those childhood years remain etched in my mind. They cannot be erased; perhaps they shouldn’t be, for they are the only true treasure I have preserved.

I remember Great Lent through its food—simple, yet exquisitely delicious. It is still hard to believe how resourceful housewives were with Lenten fare. Everyone fasted. No one touched vodka—in those days, people did not drink with the excess we see today. Many men even set aside their pipes for the duration of the fast. The church bells fell silent, replaced by the rhythmic clatter of wooden clappers.

The Heart of the Fast

The soul of Lent, however, lay in the prostrations and the Passion services. I must confess, my parents intended for me to enter the priesthood, and I grew up knowing it. Though small, I fully believed this was my path. I was a constant presence at services, praying on my knees morning and evening—always aloud. My mother would gently correct me if I stumbled over a word or missed a verse.

The Passion services were sorrowful, often beyond a child’s understanding. When the choir sang, “The Sorrowful Mother stood beneath the Cross… Oh my Son, my Son, for what sin do You now endure such suffering?” I felt a profound, aching pity for both the Mother and the crucified Son. And when they sang, “I washed You with bitter tears,” I wondered in my innocence: “Lord, how many tears would it take to wash a child?”

As Easter neared, the entire village sought confession and Communion. People asked for forgiveness for every harsh word and returned anything they had borrowed. For a brief moment, everyone seemed cleansed of sin.

The rites culminated on Good Friday with the procession of the Shroud (Plashchanytsia) around the church, accompanied by the haunting clack of wooden ratchets. Young men, dressed in festive Ukrainian Cossack attire, stood guard by the Tomb. The faithful entered on their knees, bowing to kiss the Shroud in a church draped in absolute silence—broken only by the cantors reading the Psalter day and night, keeping watch until the Resurrection.

The Joy of the Resurrection

“Christ is Risen! Christ is Risen! / Joy from heaven now appears…”

When that song finally broke the silence, the soul felt weightless. The bells, swung vigorously by the young men, rang out in a jubilant cacophony. It was Easter! The churchyard filled with crowds: masters and housewives, children and youth, all carrying baskets draped in embroidered cloths. To see whole families gathered in such harmony brought tears to the eyes and a tightening to the throat.

Spring seemed to respond in kind. Trees budded, cherry blossoms erupted, and the grass turned a tender green, speckled with yellow dandelions. Storks clattered in their high nests, and swallows darted like tiny boats, chirping the rhyme my mother taught me:

“She left the eaves, the edges, / Found nothing… nothing, nothing…”

In that wondrous, almost cinematic setting, the celebration unfolded. Where else does such a miracle exist among the “civilized” nations? I assure you—nowhere.

The Traditions of the Hearth

I can still see our little horse, Kuba, harnessed to a small cart at dawn, carrying us to the Easter service. We brought a large woven basket: the Paska (Easter bread), eggs dyed a deep terracotta in onion skins, a round of cheese topped with a decorative pat of butter, and horseradish adorned with green periwinkle.

The village was a sea of harmony. We stood around the church, mesmerized by the scent of incense and the choir’s soaring voices. The priest, in golden vestments, would sprinkle holy water, shouting, “Christ is Risen!” and the thunderous reply would come: “Indeed He is Risen!” Local boys would set off makeshift celebratory “shots” packed with sulfur—a mix of song, gunfire, and bells enough to stir even a stone heart.

How can one speak of Easter without our Galician pysanky? They were not as intricate as the Hutsul variety, but to me—a child of the forest—they were masterpieces. I would spend hours examining the patterns drawn with a pin dipped in wax: white suns and willow branches on dark violet backgrounds.

On Palm Sunday, we would tap each other with blessed willow sprigs, chanting: “It is not I who strike, but the willow that strikes / In one week, it is Easter!”

A Vanishing World

The Easter table was a sight to behold: a starched white cloth, the Paska with a flickering candle at its center, meats prepared by my father, and beetroot with horseradish. Before we ate, pieces of rye bread with blessed salt were given to the livestock, and buttered bread was taken to the dogs. Only then did my father approach each of us with a blessed egg, offering wishes and a kiss. We, in turn, kissed his hand in respect.

Years passed. I saw many Easters. Some were dark—under the German occupation, and even worse under Soviet rule, when religious life was driven underground. Officials would trample Easter baskets and force people into “subbotniks” (compulsory labor) on the holy day. Yet, even then, parents shared the blessed egg with their children in the shadows of dawn.

Traditions can be revived, but can we ever fully restore the spirituality of that era? Can we return to a time when life was defined simply by God, labor, and integrity?

Now, I live with these memories. Even today, the sound of a bell makes me cross myself. When I light a candle, the urge to pray is instinctive. As I write this, the faces of people long gone appear before me, and I hear the song once more: “Let there be no anger among you / Let God’s love bloom / Pure and gentle as a rose…”