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do all the religious “heavy lifting.” Behind the screen—which, like a holy lattice, provides
privacy but still lets you peek through—I could see busy priests in fancy robes, and above
it all the outstretched arms of Jesus. I knew he was on the cross, but because of the height
of the screen, I only saw his arms. As the candlelight flickered, I felt they were happy
arms…wanting and eager to give everyone present a big, Slavic bear hug.
Standing through an Eastern Orthodox service there, in a humble church in the forgot-
ten historic capital of a mountain kingdom, I was thankful I had zigzagged to that remote
corner of Europe. All those switchbacks earned me the chance to witness a vibrant and
time-honored tradition surviving the storms of globalization and modernization.
The Monastery of St. Peter of Cetinje is an integral part of the community.
In the middle of this Montenegrin nowhere, I met an American family traveling with
their 91-year-old grandmother. We shared stories of beautiful times we've each enjoyed
and lessons we've learned getting to know the people in this region. The grandma said,
“Traveling in places like this inspires me to keep going when I should be staying home.”
Sitting on the square in Cetinje, I nursed a bela kava (“white coffee,” as a latte is
called here) and watched kids coming home from school. Two older girls walked by hap-
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