Happy Easter!

We made it through Lent! I don't know about you, but this year's Lent was a contemplative season, even though it was busy. Taize services on Tuesday nights kept me centered on silence and God's peace. Sunday sermons kept me on track with my goals and where I should be (Thanks Charlie). I fasted on Fridays to connect with the suffering of so many of God's people. Maundy Thursday was humbling with an Agape meal and foot washing in our dimly lit parish hall before the symbolic stripping of the altar. As the perpetual light was taken down, snuffed out, and taken away, I had a huge lump in my throat that lasted through much of my time spent sitting up in the silent chapel during my wait with Christ.

But today, the church was filled with flowers, music and singing. Our congregation stood outside laughing and joking for a group photo before the kids went for an Easter egg hunt, and we all ate brunch together as one big family. But the best part, the part that brought me to tears, was saying and singing the Alleluias. They're back! Thanks be to God!

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.