Took Clementine out to attend to morning business, and she was so distracted by the beautiful day she almost forgot to get around to it. The weather report says that it’s “50 degrees but feels like 44 degrees.” That sounds like March weather rather than May weather, and that’s what people have been lightly grousing about these days. But they didn’t talk to Clementine, because for her it was the best of all possible days. The sun is out and the clouds are about and the breezes are blowing fresh scents her way — and as far as her nose and her big heart can judge, this is the best of all days.

Probably fitting, considering that my brain is playing one of the hymns from last night’s service over and over. “This is the day of resurrection…
Let us be illumined by the feast. …” and so on. Holy Trinity does the Paschal Canon at … well, “a brisk pace” would hardly cover it. It’s more of an all-out Seabiscuit-in-the-homestretch gallop. Given that there’s usually no song sung slower than “Noble Joseph” on Holy Friday, it’s entirely fitting that we take those odes at a clip (if only to show, as Fr. Joseph said in this winner of the best Holy Week story, that we can boogie). And what a wonderful time that was! Holy Trinity is a bigger building than I’m used to, and when the church was dark, it was so dark. The only light to be had was the candle burning on the altar. And then, the priest sang “Come, take light from light not overtaken by night. Come, glorify Christ who is risen from the dead,” and his candle began lighting other candles and … oh my. Well, everyone who’s seen it already knows, and anyone who hasn’t wouldn’t get it from mere words.

I could go on and on … the procession, the first time you hear “Christ is risen” and sing it in reply, re-entering the church which now has every light lit. From deepest sorrow to greatest gladness, from deathly stillness to exultant noise. And the great responsibility if you’re a chanter or choir member, of making every word understood as you read the Church’s centuries-old poetry, the wonder and joy you borrow to replace your own struggling comprehension. And knowing all the same that everyone will hear what God gives them to hear in their own way, according to their own abilities.

All my Paschas have been different. This one was like strong wine. Maybe too strong for me, after all. Today, sitting out on the step as the dog meandered through thick weeds, snuffling at the wind, blinking in the sun, I could re-live it and still be affected. Last night, I couldn’t take it all in — it seemed like too much. I knew I couldn’t stop and look and drink it in or I’d lose my place and get emotional — good for you once in awhile, but certain to earn you one of Those Looks from your choir director (though mine was very understanding). But now it’s just the day and the dog, and verses and glances come back like afterimages:

This is the day of resurrection.
Let us be illumined, O people.
Pascha, the Pascha of the Lord.
For from death to life and from earth to heaven
Has Christ our God led us,
As we sing the hymn of victory:
“Christ is risen from the dead!”