In the Pocono Mountains, which stretch like a sea of pines across central Pennsylvania, stands a white-walled sanctuary—St. Michael’s Ukrainian Orthodox Church in the town of Canadensis. When Father Adrian left bustling Brooklyn in search of a “place blessed by God,” he dreamed of silence, fresh air, and a community where everyone would feel “at home.” Less than ten years have passed, and today this church is about to celebrate an anniversary, while its adjacent yard once a year turns into a lively Ukrainian fair of goodwill, where a thousand varenyky, a barrel of kvass, and hundreds of guests merge into one big family celebration.
The festival was born only three years ago, yet parishioners already say that “it couldn’t be otherwise: every Ukrainian village must have a feast where guests are invited to have fun,” explains its initiator Bohdan. The day begins strictly by the canons: the Divine Liturgy, blessings from several priests, a joint prayer for Ukraine and for those now holding the line at the front. Then come benches and tents scattered on the grass, the aroma of smoke from grills, children’s laughter, and the constant buzz of warm exchanges such as “So, where do you live now?” and “Oh, go try Mrs. Nadia’s varenyky!”
Cuisine is what makes this day unforgettable. Just one hostess, Mrs. Nadia, molded a thousand varenyky and baked several kilograms of cakes; nearby, fragrant stacks of holubtsi, chebureks, potato pancakes with mushrooms await, while shashlyk browns evenly over wood coals under the watchful eyes of enthusiastic men. At the improvised “Lviv Kryivka” tavern counter, Mr. Petro makes his debut—for 17 years in the USA he had never tried the role of innkeeper, yet now he pours Ukrainian kvass, beer, and wine specially hauled in cases from distributors scattered across America.
While some savor the food, others sing: the stage gleams with embroidered shirts, and national costumes display the richness of cut and color by which our nation is recognized. “Kalyna,” V. Vinnikova, Shanis, and the band Kruta Vezha resound, and the climax is a performance by Oksana Bilozir. Lyrical and patriotic songs are dedicated to the brave defenders, to mothers and wives who wait. Indeed, “Ukraine sings even when it weeps.”
Behind the emotion stands a clear purpose: to help those on the front line. Together with the Ukrainian National Women’s League of America, the organizers hold a lottery and auction—souvenirs for guests become the next donation to the Armed Forces of Ukraine. The community has done this “from day one to this day,” so every varenyok and every note quite literally converts into dollars for the front.
Yet perhaps most important is the sense of a single tapestry that stitches together people from across the diaspora. Here is Mykhailo, who has lived in Chicago only a year and is attending a Ukrainian festival for the first time; next to him stands Mrs. Liuba from New York, who over nine years has visited dozens of such events. They are fellow villagers from Ternopil Oblast who met by chance among the pines of Pennsylvania, and both admit: “Here it feels like a scrap of homeland we carry in our hearts.”
As evening falls and the sun slips behind the hills, the air still smells of wood smoke and pastries, while volunteers at the church entrance carefully stack the last crates of dishes and flags. They joke that they will rest “until morning,” and then start planning for next year—because if the celebration was “glorious,” turning away hundreds eager to return would be a sin.
Thus the festival at St. Michael’s UOC has become more than a tradition. It is another spiritual bridge between Ukraine and America, a space where a varenyok equals charity, a song is medicine for weary souls, and the Poconos’ natural beauty serves as a backdrop for renewing cultural memory. Participants believe that God blesses new good intentions, giving strength and faith, for it is faith that urges us to share kindness, opens hearts, and allows us—thousands of kilometers from home—to feel like one big family.
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