Chrissi (Chrysoula) Hart is an author, Licensed Psychologist and children's radio host.
Born in Cyprus, Chrissi writes stories for children from her cultural heritage that are inspiring and spiritually satisfying.
She has a BA in Psychology from the University of Hull, British Psychological Society Diploma in Clinical Psychology and a PhD in Psychology from the University of Leicester, UK. She helped troubled children for twenty years and has a part time child psychology practice.
She lives in York, Pennsylvania, with her husband Barry and children, Adam and Sophia. They attend St. John Chrysostom Antiochian Orthodox Church, where Chrissi is a choir member.
To learn more about Chrissi, visit www.chrissihart.com.
You can also listen to Chrissi reading Orthodox and classic children' literature via her Readings from Under the Grapevine podcast at Ancient Faith Radio.
Feature
Touching Heaven through Children of the Past and Present
by Chrissi Hart
Many years before I was born, in 1909, my grandmother lay on a bed under the shade of a grapevine, dying. She was just five years old. Then one day, a kind grandfather figure—a holy man, a saint—appeared to her on his white horse and miraculously changed her life forever. This event not only made my life possible, but filled it with inspiration as well.
A Childlike Faith
When I think of my grandmother as a young sick child, I am truly inspired and awestruck by her experience and her healing through the intercessions of a saint. To have such a story in my family heritage is a great treasure and blessing. She was the granddaughter of a priest who was visited by a saint! By God’s grace, one hundred years later, I would write about Saint Kendeas to glorify his name in the Western world.
My grandmother planted memories for me early on which I never forgot. She did this by frequently taking me to Saint Kendeas’ cave and church in Cyprus when I was an infant and young child. On my first visit as an adult, though I did not clearly remember those earlier visits, I somehow knew I had been there before and felt the saint’s presence outside the cave where he had lived. My mother commented, “Your grandmother used to bring you here all the time as a baby.” The stairs leading down into the cave were in my early memories, but I could never figure out where they belonged until that visit. Years later, I discovered the story that was waiting to be told.
I identify with my grandmother in many ways. I was named after her and am told I look like her—her youthful oval face, light olive skin and dark hair, her petite stature, her smile—and I also share her love of gardening and cooking and, unfortunately, her migraines.
