Missing the Alleluias

Lent is difficult. There are the days of fasting, the extra services, the reminders of the Crucifixion, the litanies and confessions of sin. It can seem really, really depressing, even knowing that all of the preparation is for something mysterious, magical and awe-some.

But really, what hits me the most, is the lack of Alleluias. I keep starting to say them at the Eucharist, at the final blessing. And it chokes me up that they aren't there. Even now, just typing this, I'm welling up. Part of it is that I personify things like Alleluias. I'm a poet, and we do weird things like that. I picture them as golden, curvy words floating around ethereally, enjoying God's presence and spirit. And when we say the word, it lifts them up and makes God happy. I told my husband as we were walking out of church a couple weeks ago, when I first missed the Alleluias, that someone must have caught them in a net, wrapped them in tissue paper, and put them away in a box in a closet in the choir room. I thought they must be sad to be in the dark, and maybe even be wondering what they did wrong. Paul, as usual, rolled his eyes and told me I'm strange. Strange in a positive way, but strange nonetheless. I'll be so happy on Easter Day when they get unwrapped again and can come join us in church, in songs and responses. And I think God will be happy too.