The Octave of Easter
Notes on Joy and Its Longing
For almost a decade, I’ve celebrated Eastertide by tracking daily joys—small and remarkable—and writing brief reflections on them, which I share on Instagram with a photo. This year, I’m compiling my reflections into a single post. These are fragments. Brief daily notes, not a polished essay. I’ve resisted the urge to smooth them into something tidier than they were.
Christ is Risen
We celebrated Easter Sunday in Nanaimo. Despite a fairly annoying head cold, we corralled the family into the car and made the drive up island. Clear skies. Quiet roads. Trees set against the ocean. Creation hushed and still, yet praising.
Our church is working toward launching a campus in Nanaimo. Last summer, Luke and Helena moved there with their family to begin this good work. They hosted a pop-up Easter service—wonderful by every measure—and being part of their milestone brought back memories of our own church-planting adventure.
Luke and Helena said our presence made them feel grounded. It’s a gift that Julia and I can have that effect within our Coastline family. A sign of rootedness. Like we’re budding up out of the soil.
Being sick tempered my joy. But it kept me attuned to the need for resurrection. A small gift I suppose. I didn’t feel joy during the day. But I was not oblivious to joy either.
Monday | Day 2
I spent the morning in Psalm 46, which has been speaking into the political theology books I’ve been reading lately. Be still and know that I am God. In context, this isn’t merely a contemplative invitation. It’s a declaration that Christ is King. The only One who will make wars cease. In a world of political turmoil and unrest, we wait. It takes active patience. It takes a hope that doesn’t retreat into passivity. But sitting in the stillness of that ache—for God to do what only God can do—there was a rumour of joy in the waiting.
The rest of my day was more earthy: digging holes in the backyard for our pavers. Dirt on my hands. Mud from the hose. A better path. Joy in the basics. Sometimes that’s enough.
Tuesday | Day 3
Delmar mentioned that, in the church calendar, this is “the octave of Easter.” I remarked that seemed strange—it’s only the third day. He reminded me that the entire first week of Easter bears that name. Some comedic joy took root.
As Eastertide begins, I find myself more attuned to my longing for joy than to joy itself. Though now I’m curious whether joy progresses like an octave. What does each note sound like? I’m not disheartened—but so far, the first week has held more dissonance than resonance with the season. Joy in a diminished chord? Accompanied by joyful anticipation that these notes will ascend into harmony.
Wednesday | Day 4
Numb. The left side of my jaw and tongue. Totally, utterly numb. Blergh. I loathe it. I often opt to have work done without freezing. But this time I accepted the advice against it. Two fillings repaired. The experts said the numbness would wear off in three to four hours. It took six and a half. That’s how it goes.
One could say I’m an expert on joy, all things considered. But still amateurish. Read my dissertation. Read my book. Cultivate joy. It’ll likely take longer than the estimate I give you. And sometimes not. That’s how it goes.
Numbness drifting away seems an apt metaphor for this octave week of joy. I haven’t felt the strong grip of joy yet. I’m being a bit more relentless in what I claim as joy this year. I’ve felt its many positive accompaniments: happiness, nostalgia, contentment, peace. But full-blown joy? Not quite.
I’ve been thinking about The Sound of Music. When my dad is contented, he unconsciously hums The Lonely Goatherd. It’s very endearing. It got me thinking about the children being taught the scales in Do Re Mi—set against a bleak historical backdrop of the Nazi invasion. An apt metaphor for learning the scales of joy. Learn them with war in the background. “Be joyful though you have considered all the facts,” as Wendell Berry puts it. Who knows? By the time we reach that second octave, we may be in harmony. Or flat. Or sharp. Nevertheless: sing. Sing anyway.
We can call this fourth day of Easter Fa. With enough time, numbness fades. You can count on it.
Thursday | Day 5
Still sick. The day had much good in it. But felt like a fight against mind and body—pulling myself along.
I appreciated time in the Word, reflecting on ransom and justification. I appreciated turning onto Foul Bay and seeing the mountains. I appreciated the sun on my walk to the bank at lunch. I appreciated my colleagues and students — and eating alone in the break room. I appreciated the freedom to call it a day, come home, and take a short nap. I appreciated time with my family.
Perhaps appreciation is the note for today. The So in the scale. A needle pulling thread toward joy.
Friday | Day 6
Mental fog. Still getting over this cold. Walking the dog with Julia, on the loop back home, we found a Rubber Plant left at the side of the road for the taking. So we took it. A joyful discovery! I awkwardly carried it home while Baxter trotted alongside.
Once home, Julia potted it—only to discover the plant has bugs. We basically took on the responsibility of disposing of someone else’s trash. There’s a deep sense of the comedic in it. One man’s trash is another’s treasure, except when it’s actually just trash. A wink of joy, even if not explicit. How can one not delight in the comedic?
In the evening, I hosted Jesus Supper Club and gave our Table Conversation cards a shot. Prompts that move from small talk to going deep. “When’s the last time you felt fear about something?” I shared something vulnerable to take the pressure off. Then nobody shared. At least not initially. Plates were cleared. Jokes were made. Dessert was offered. Until I named the fact that everyone was afraid of the question. More laughter. Eventually, people shared. It was honest. It was good.
La: a note to follow So. The comedic follows appreciation. We do live in a divine comedy, after all. Perhaps we’re afraid to see it.
Saturday | Day 7
The tried and true staples of Ecclesiastes joy. “There is nothing better for a person than that he should eat and drink and find enjoyment in his toil.” A quiet, burning joy —embers flickering—as I spent time with Ansley and Maggie doing the things they love: pancakes and French toast, a walk around Thetis Lake, swimming at Commonwealth, The Super Mario Bros. Movie, a trip to Michaels, playing games, snuggling as we fell asleep. The joy of the blessed ordinary.
Ti: a drink with jam and bread. If you can delight in it, take joy in it. Note: it is a gift from God (Eccles 5:19).
The Octave | Day 8
The octave reached. But where is the joy? Perhaps I put too much pressure on myself — discrediting small joys, or refusing to name them as such this year. I have waited instead for joy’s surprise. And I’m still waiting.
The morning began with Psalm 51 and Romans 7. The notes of the octave ascended to “the joy of salvation” — or rather, to the longing for it. The plea for it. It seems appropriate. The ordinary joys, as good as they are (and rightly placed on the scale where they’re due), rise toward the joy of salvation. Not the joy of the Spirit, but the joy of saving grace. I’m left with the prayer that never loses its weight for Eastertide joy: restore to me the joy of my salvation. I never tire of praying it.
Coda
The thread, as best I can trace it, runs through the body: a cold that wouldn’t quit, a jaw gone numb, dirt on my hands, daughters asleep beside me. Joy, when it flickered, was earthy and accidental: a buggy rubber plant, a table afraid of a question, embers rather than flame.
I came into this octave expecting joy’s surprise and instead was reacquainted with its longing. Yet — as I apparently needed reminding — that’s the nature of joy: we feel its longing more than its arrival. I did write a book about this. Perhaps that’s the comedic thread beneath it all. I’d rather long for joy than quench the desire. Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti — and the scale resolves not into arrival, but into the ask:
Restore to me the joy of my salvation.
The octave was always going to end there.