‘Come with high and holy hymning’, says the Easter hymn I love for its jauntiness. (You show me a hymn with more opportunities for fist pumps. Let me save you the time. There isn’t one.)
(I do actually fist-pump, to make myself laugh, but secretly.)
Easter always feels like a time for high and holy hymning, and all sorts of things feel holy to me at the moment.
exalted, sacred, divine
singing top-of-voice in an Easter choir
lying flat on a hill and watching the sky turn
sneaking into an old village church to look at the flowers
sitting round a table crowded with family and eating, and eating, and eating
watching Henry pick something up from the floor with furious concentration
fiiiiinally memorising The Living Christ in time for Easter Sunday
sleeping in (I’m not kidding)
Today, Tim went back to work, and I cleaned and shopped and washed and cooked. Ug. But first I lay for a few minutes in a patch of sun, thinking about this week and other things. I watched Henry uncurl his fingers like a flower, out and back, out and back. His eyes are huge in the mornings.
I am just finding all sorts of things holy at the moment.