The best is yet to come By Tamara Pachis
I looked down at my soorj as the fine grinds clumped together in a muddy lump at the bottom of the cup. The bitterness lingering on my tongue turned sour, mirroring the ache settling deep in my stomach. My aunt slid another freshly baked nazook onto my plate. Its aroma filled the small apartment, stirring memories of a childhood that once felt warm, loving, and kind--feelings now distant, like recalling a dream just beyond reach.
We sat around the table with our heads bowed, my hands resting on the curve of my rounded belly. The unnerving silence was broken only by the sharp slurps of coffee. Our cups were small, each painted with bright red pomegranates and women in traditional dress dancing in circles--hand-painted by elderly women from a small village near Yerevan. Every detail carried history. Every sip carried weight.
"Any news from the hospital?" my cousin asked, her mouth full of pastry.
"They're trying to manage the fluid in her lungs," my aunt replied. "The radiation has been so hard on her. She's lost all her hair. Even eating is difficult now. She looks like a completely different person."
I wrapped my hand around the warm cup, thinking of my mother taking me through the streets of that beautiful city when I was small. She embodied Armenia itself: its strength, its sorrow, its pride. She taught me to honor where I came from. A lineage of survivors. A people who endured atrocity yet clung to faith in a God who carried them through the darkest nights.
A true Armenian woman. Beautiful, intelligent, resilient. Enduring the cruelty of illness while holding fast to a faith that declared, even if not, God is still good. Her warm brown eyes were weary from battle, yet still lit with something unyielding. Hope that refused to dim.
"God can do a miracle," I said suddenly, fire rising in my chest. "She's been faithful her entire life. She's the last person who deserves this. We need to keep fighting. We need to keep praying."
It was the same fire she had given me. Fire for God. Fire for justice. Fire to endure.
"Of course He can!" my aunt said firmly. "We don't lose hope. We stay on our knees, interceding every day. The best is yet to come."
The best is yet to come.
I heard it everywhere until the words nearly made me sick. And still, I clung to them. I repeated the scripture that had carried me forward for months: "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a future and a hope."
It had been months of holding onto an illusion that felt thinner each day. Still, I refused to let anything but hope settle in my mind.
"And how's the baby? Did you get the ultrasound back?" my cousin asked.
I let out a small smile. I put a hand on my stomach, rounded and pinching at the seams of my pants.
"Baby is good! Much better than the last pregnancy. But literally all I want to do is eat." I said, taking
a bite of another pastry I raked onto my plate.
"Wouldn't it be nice if we made her some and brought it to her?" my cousin said, pointing to the plate of piled-up nazooks.
"She'd love that!" I exclaimed.
"I'm going to go see her tomorrow morning. It's my shift this time, so I'll get to spend the day with her. I can even take the coffee boiler and make her some coffee if she wants." my aunt suggested.
"I've always wanted to learn how to make it," I said to my aunt. "Can you teach me? I want to be able to pass it down to my kids the same way you made it for us."
"Of course! If you have the energy, we can even make some now. We just about finished all the ones I made earlier." my aunt giggled.
"Yes! I'd love that," I exclaimed.
She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with an old red recipe book, its pages warped, stained, softened by de cades of use. She tied her apron around her waist and flipped through it with practiced fingers.
"Ah! Here it is. Take a picture," she said. "This is your metsmama's recipe. Much better than your Aunt Alenoosh's, but don't tell her I said that."
She laid out the ingredients like a ritual. Butter. Sugar. Eggs. Sour cream. Vanilla. Yeast. Flour. Baking powder. Salt.
"First, we wake the yeast," she said, pouring warm water into a small bowl.
As the yeast bloomed, we mixed the dry in gredients, then the wet. My aunt's hands moved with certainty, folding everything together until the dough became soft and sticky, alive beneath her palms.
"The best is yet to come," my aunt said again, pressing the towel over the bowl. "You can't rush it. You have to let it rise."
We covered it and waited. The kitchen filled with warmth as the dough rose, doubling in size, breath ing. In the meantime, we made the filling--butter, sugar, and simple, but rich and fragrant, spices.
That night, my hair still smelled of the warmth of butter and sugar. I fell asleep with silent prayers unfinished. Prayers that my unborn child would know their grandmother. Know who she was and all the beauty she carried. The scent lingered with me, warm and familiar. Like her. Like home.
The next morning, we journeyed
"Tamar," my aunt scolded as my cousin snuck a bite. "There won't be enough!"
My cousin giggled, licking her fingers, unfazed. When the dough was ready, my aunt divided it, showing me how to roll it thin--but not too thin-how to spread the filling evenly, how to roll it, and divide it just right. Each movement was deliberate, reverent. Not just baking, but inheritance.
We slid the trays into the oven, the door closing with a quiet finality. As they baked, the apartment filled with that familiar scent: comfort, memory, love.
When they emerged golden and warm, we wrapped them carefully. Tomorrow, they would travel from this small kitchen to a sterile hospital room.
of the small hospital room that housed my once magnificent mother.
Her luscious dark hair, now covered with a silk scarf. Her lively eyes, now weak and dim. Her beautiful curves, now revealed empty space. Her bubbly essence, now drained and worn. And yet, she carried a beautiful fire within her. Something that the illness could never steal from her the way it stole everything else.
"Anahid!" my aunt rushed to wrap her arms around her sister. "How did you sleep?"
"Okay," she panted, coughing. "They kept waking me up to drain my lungs and give me medication. And one of my neighbors was being naughty and kept yelling through the night."
"We brought you something that could help with that. And guess who helped make it?"
She smiled when she saw the box. A real smile--
the kind that reached her eyes before her body could stop it.
"Nazook," she whispered. "You made this?"
I nodded, pride swelling in my chest as my heart warmed at the sight of my mother's smile.
She only managed a few bites, but she held the rest in her hands as if it were something holy.
"You forgot the best part!" my aunt said, pouring the soorj into a white styrofoam cup and passing it to her. "It hits the spot, no?" she giggled. "Bravo," my mother smiled
I tensed.
A nurse walked into the room with a handful of supplies.
"Good morning, Miss Anna!" she chirped. "How's our champion doing today?"
"Oh, fine, Evalyne, how are you?" my mother said, wheezing, but polite as ever.
"Good, good, thanks! We just have to give you some medication now. But how's the fluid feeling?"
"It feels hard to breathe a bit...like I'm drowning," my mother said, voice straining. "When can we
stretched out her hand toward me, motioning me closer.
I sat at the edge of her bed and took her hand. With the other, she rubbed my stomach.
"You're doing okay? How's the baby? Did you eat something?" she asked quickly.
"Yes, Mama. I'm fine. The baby's fine. Healthy. I ate before I came. Don't worry."
It was so like her to worry about everyone else while she herself needed care. Her selflessness was one of her most beautiful qualities--a steady light in the darkness surrounding her.
She let out a small sigh of relief, satisfied with my answer.
"And you, Mama?" I asked. "What did they say?"
She shrugged. "It doesn't matter what they say. He has the final say." She pointed upward.
The nurse winced. "Unfortunately, it's too soon to drain it just yet, but I'll give you some medication that can help. Be sure to sit up and take deep
She expertly assembled the IV line and medication and adjusted my mother in bed. Eyes bright, she looked at my belly.
"When's the baby due?" she asked. "It's supposed to be the end of July," my voice cracked. "I'm sorry, but why can't we drain her now? She's clearly in a lot of discomfort!"
"Because we drained her not even an hour ago," she replied. "We'll keep checking in on her, and the medication will help a little. Encourage her to breathe deeply and sit upright. I'll be back again soon to monitor."
I let out a heavy breath and nodded in agreement.
She weakly smiled back. "Just buzz me if you need anything." Walking out, she looked at my mother and me. Her smile disappeared.
My mother began coughing until her face turned red--the sound of heavy crackles in her chest with every breath.
My frustration forced my fists into a ball. I controlled my breathing as I thought of the injustice.
She took a sip of water my aunt rushed over to her
"Everyone feels sorry for me," my mother said quietly. "But I don't need that. I remind myself that the Good Shepherd will take care of you and your brother. That's what keeps me here. Both of you. But I know you are in the best hands!"
Her hand rested on my belly. "Even your little one." She smiled. "The baby will know their grandmother... in one way or another. "
Her eyes filled.
"We keep saying the best is yet to come," she whispered.
Lifting the nazook and examining it. "It was pressed and kneaded. Put into the heat. Broken so it could become something good."
Her gaze softened. "I
think Christ is doing that with me now ... preparing me. Whether I see it here... or there."
My chest collapsed.
"But why can't it be here?" I cried. "We need you. I need you, Mama. He knows that! God doesn't need to keep giving you the hardest battles. He should give them to someone else, not you."
My heart raced. My face burned. My body shook. She caressed my hair, tender and steady, her warmth radiating through me.
"Jeegar," she said softly. "We don't know His ways. But we know His ways are good because He is good. Even when His definition of good isn't the one we would choose."
I huffed, crossing my arms, angry and confused."
"I know...but."
"God is good. Always." She held my hand firmly. "He was good when we came to this country. He was good when your father had a brain tumor. He was good when he united our family. He was good when you had your first child. And He is good even now."
"Amen," my aunt whispered. "Anahid jan... why don't we sing?"
My mother's guitar sat tucked in the corner of the room, untouched by wires and machines. The same whimsical instrument that once filled our home with joy, laughter, and praise. Now it rested in the dim light of a hospital room.
My aunt gently strummed the strings, humming a familiar melody.
"All my life, you have been faithful," she began. "All my life, you have been so, so good. With every breath that I am able, I will sing of the goodness of God."
My mother joined in, arms lifted, her voice weak but unwavering.
Holding her hand, I clung to the words - declaring goodness in the midst of turmoil, hope in the midst of pain, joy in the midst of uncertainty.
I looked at the box of nazook we had made together and thought of my mother.
Some things take time. Dough must rise. Faith must stretch and endure.
And sometimes, the best is not what comes next, but what we are already being prepared for. ֎
In loving memory of Anahid Rowley Amirkhanian. The illustration was created using artificial intelligence (AI).
OBITUARY
“Approach the Lord and receive the light.”
TORONTO – His Beatitude Raphael Bedros XXI Minassian, Catholicos Patriarch of the Armenian Catholic Holy See of Cilicia, the Patriarchal Congregation of Bzommar, the Armenian Catholic Eparchy of Our Lady of Nareg in the United States and Canada, and the community of St. Gregory the Illuminator Armenian Catholic Church of Toronto, with deep sorrow, announce the passing of the founding pastor, Very Rev. Fr. Elias (Yeghia) Kirijian. Following a long battle against cancer, he commended his soul to the Father on Monday, January 26, 2026, at 5:05 p.m., in the Rectory of St. Gregory the Illuminator Armenian Catholic Church in Toronto.
May the memory of the righteous be blessed.
Toronto, January 26, 2026
CONDOLENCES
We are profoundly saddened by the news of the passing of the Very Reverend Father Elias (Yeghia) Kirijian, the long-serving and Founding Pastor of the St. Gregory Armenian Catholic Church of Toronto. Father Yeghia was one of the pillars of the Armenian community in Toronto, and for the past two decades, a dedicated reader and steadfast supporter of Torontohye. On behalf of Torontohye's editors and staff, we extend our heartfelt sympathies to the Armenian community of Toronto, the Armenian Catholic community, the council and congregation of the St. Gregory Armenian Catholic Church, as well as to Father Kirijian's family, friends, and loved ones during this difficult time.
Torontohye’s next issue (#223, March 2026) will be dedicated to The memory of the just is blessed.
The memory of the just is blessed.
From the editor
Torontohye does not necessarily endorse or evaluate the products, services, or companies advertised. The opinions expressed in this publication are those of the authors. They do not purport to reflect the opinions or views of Torontohye. The reproduction of the material contained in this publication may be made only with the written permission of the publisher or editor. All submissions are subject to editing for space, style, and clarity.
յատկանշական նախադասութիւններէն մէկը սա էր. «Հզօրները ունին իրենց ուժը, բայց մենք ալ ունինք բան մը՝ դադրիլ
LALAI
վայելած եւ հարազատներով մխիթարուած
այսօր, Թորոնթոյի մէջ, հակառակ անոր
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1. (գոյ.)
5.
6. (գոյ.)
9. (գոյ.)
12. (գոյ.) հատուածային
13. (բայ)
15. (անուն)
16. (գոյ.,
18. (ածական)
Ուղղահայեաց
1. (գոյ.) թիկնոց,
2. (բայ) սպասաւորել,
3. (գոյ.) ձիւնախառն
4. (անուն) Գանատայի
7. (բայ) մահանալ (մանաւանդ՝
8. (գոյ.)
10. (գոյ.) խաշնարած,
11. (գոյ.) ձիւնէ
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(հայերէն sudoku)
Junior problem
In Ms. Arenis class, each student has blonde hair or brown eyes (or both). One quarter of the students with blonde hair also have brown eyes, and one third of the students with brown eyes also have blonde hair. What fraction of the class has brown eyes?
Armen’s Math Corner (answers on pg. 18)
Senior problem
Maral loves computer programming. To practise her skills, she wrote a program that takes an input number, squares it, adds a constant value, then multiplies the result by another constant value, and finally displays the output. To test her program, Maral asked Hacop and Ruben to enter the numbers 8 and 3, respectively. The output was 204 for Hacop and 39 for Ruben. If you enter 5, what output should you expect?
