My favorite day of the week is Friday.
On Fridays, I spend hours with two groups of preschoolers as a catechist in the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd atrium. I admit that I have always had a particular fondness for preschoolers. I love to be in their company. And I have a deep and resounding joy in the presentations of CGS. It’s pretty much a guarantee for nearly perfect Fridays.
On the last Friday before Lent, with great solemnity and ceremony, we hid the Alleluia. We took the wooden letters I’d painted sparkly gold with my children two decades ago, and we wrapped them up and put them in a wooden box and slid them way under a low table. Then, for all of Lent, we talked about how we were avoiding “the A word.” This week, we get to open the box and sing our Alleluias. They will likely sound like shouting. Four-year-olds love permission to shout.
Easter is a season of proclamations. After 40 days of Lenten silence, the church resounds once more with a word that has been tucked away: Alleluia. We sing it, chant it, (maybe shout it) and say it with joy — but how often do we pause to let it shape us?
Alleluia is more than a liturgical acclamation. It’s a one-word prayer. It’s shorthand for the fullness of Christian hope. Translated loosely, it means “praise the Lord,” but in truth, it’s a word that resists translation. Like music or laughter, it belongs to that rare category of expression that conveys more than explanation ever could.
When we teach children to pray, we often begin with words they can remember and repeat: “Thank you,” “Help me,” “I love you.” Alleluia belongs to that family. It’s easy to memorize and endlessly expressive. It can be whispered through tears or sung with jubilation. It is the breath of the soul at once at rest and leaping with joy in our God.
Springtime mirrors this kind of prayer. Buds push through cold soil. Light lengthens. Birds return and begin again. Nature sings her own alleluia — not because life is easy, but because it’s awakening. So, too, we are invited to rise from whatever tombs we’ve known and greet life anew.
Maybe you’ve felt buried under the weight of sorrow, routine or weariness. Maybe Lent asked more of you than you had to give. That’s okay. The church, like a mother, gently lifts your chin this week and says, “Look up. The stone has been rolled away. There is light.”
Alleluia reminds us that we are Easter people. Not because we always feel triumphant, but because we know the story doesn’t end in death. It ends in life — eternal, abundant, grace-filled life. And every time we say Alleluia, we speak that truth aloud, even if our voices tremble.
This Easter week, consider adopting Alleluia as your breath prayer. Let it be the word you return to as you fold laundry, as you sip your morning coffee, as you sit in traffic, as you walk beneath blooming trees. Say it when you feel joy. Say it when you’re still waiting for joy to return. And maybe, find a small child to say it with you. You’ll be glad you did.
Foss, whose website is takeupandread.org, writes from Connecticut.
