Holy Saturday

The non-churched among my fellow-Blippers must think I'm going on a bit about ... well, about religion, or at least religious practices: I'm sorry. Holy Week has been such an important feature of my life for the past 48 years or so that it seems obvious to see that it will dominate in a way others will find odd. The Saturday after Good Friday is emotionally a time of emptiness and waiting, but the practical side of this is that a few people find there's so much to do that the day flies past.

It was a perfect day as far as the weather went. I spent a chunk of the morning in church, creating, along with my pal, the Easter Garden in the heart of the stone altar. The extra photo shows said pal crouching almost in the space, while another friend, more gifted with flowers than I could ever be, puts the finishing touches to a tower of blooms.  There were, I suppose, five of us doing things - cleaning brass, doing things with plants, or, in my case, clambering onto the altar to put the two angels, who look as if they're having a good gossip, on the high window ledge above the altar. I think I may be getting past such clambering ...

Home for a second coffee before heading out for a lunchtime walk along the shore road and back; a quick look at the Paschal Proclamation before dinner; a meal at 4pm, an all-too-short rest. Then back to church.

My main photo shows the lighting and blessing of the Paschal Candle, lit from the flame of the fire burning on the left. A blackbird was singing its heart out in the tall tree above us, and an owl hooted quietly in the forest beyond. The candle was then carried aloft back into the darkened church, where it was used to light everyone's small candle. I sang the Exultet; the church blazed into light and Alleluias as Himself let rip with a fanfare on the organ and the bells sounded in the tower. We renewed our baptismal vows, we had the first communion of Easter. We could do none of this last year. It was great to be back.

As we came home, I was reminded of a line from a poem I have never been able to track down since I stopped teaching: the night was nailed to the sky with hard, bright stars. Don't ask me to explain why any of this works. It just does.