I suspect Feorlean and I will have the same subject for tonight's Blips, though they'll be from slightly different viewpoints - the moment when the lighted Paschal Candle was adorned with the cross and nails and lit from the new fire that had been lit perhaps five minutes before this moment.
The drama of this first Eucharist of Easter, with its retelling of the story of creation and the ancient ceremonies that link us to our forebears, never fails to grip. This year, there was an added poignancy as the flames shot up. I had had a hand in the creation of this particular fire, and I knew how fiercely flammable its heart was (berberis prunings that had been in my shed for a fortnight). After a cautious start, the flames suddenly leapt up and as the sparks flew and the fire crackled I thought of Notre Dame de Paris and the terrifying power of fire - and then of resurrection, and hope, and new beginnings.
Because Easter is so late this year, the perfect evening was far from dark, but by the time I'd sung the Exsultet (always a special privilege) and we'd renewed our Baptismal vows and celebrated the resurrection the sky had darkened, and when I looked out there were no trees lighting the sky and I knew we'd got away with it for another year.