By John Hughes
Special to the Mirror-Spectator
Standing in the sunlit back row of St. David Armenian Church in Boca Raton, Florida, the part of me that seeks God’s attention kneels at the unlit altar of St. Zoravor Church in Yerevan, Armenia – too many miles away, but as close as the earthy smell of incense.
It has been 12 years since my prayers in St. Zoravor asked for guidance as I returned back to life in America. For just as many years (2000-2012) Armenia was my home. From evening glimpses of snowy Mount Ararat to morning walks on the sands of the Atlantic, the path there to here has not been straight and could not have been predicted.
So here I am hearing again a language I still don’t understand but listening to a voice that doesn’t need words, sorting out the journey.
Till very recently I’ve not lived in a place where there was a Diaspora community. Finding Armenians in Boca has been a bonus. I’ve bought Armenian string cheese and Jermuk spring water in a Russian market here. Some of the names on mailboxes in my building end in “ian”. My name doesn’t; but it’s likely that I’ve experienced more of the ancestral home than most of these who are now my neighbors.