One chilly Easter Eve in March, my brother, cousins, and I spent the night at our Croatian grandparents’ house—the same grandparents who once taught me the delicate art of strudel-making. That night, they decided to take us to their Byzantine Rite church for what they called a “midnight mass.”
Bundled up, we arrived at the church and were quickly ushered into a solemn procession that wrapped around the block. The priest led the way, chanting prayers in Croatian while swinging ornate censers filled with the heavy scent of frankincense and myrrh. To our tired and shivering kid brains, it felt like the ritual lasted forever—definitely close to two hours.
The next morning, when our mom called to check in, we proudly told her we’d already gone to mass. She asked if we had received communion. “No,” we said, “they didn’t do communion at this one.” There was a pause. Turns out, what we had attended was just the Easter vigil service—not the actual Easter Mass.
So, not long after, our mom showed up, rounded us all up, and took us to a proper Easter Mass. Double church duty for us that year!