03.50 in the morning

It is pitch dark, but an eager moon lights the half metre snow I'm forcing my way through. I'm walking to Vigilia. It is bitter cold. I can't remember the last time it was as cold as it is this morning. The snow creaks under my feet, as I open the door to the chapel. I stomp my feet to rid them of the snow, and walk inside. It is warm. The smell of incense and burned candles has impregnated the room. I make the sign of the cross. Then I sit down on the murky green wooden bench and close my eyes. It is dark in the chapel. Only two candles light it. I am alone with my thoughts. I pray, silently, asking for blessings and protection for my family and my friends; even for those that people say would be my enemies.

Then one of the monks appear. He walks slowly round the room with a long match, lighting the candles. Soon, as the other monks enter the room, it is filled with soft candle light. It is still dark. Then the Vigilia suddenly begins.

Herre, hur många är inte mina fiender!
Många reser sig mot mig.
Många säger om mig: ”Det finns ingen frälsning för honom hos Gud.”

I read the words in my mind. I haven't yet learned the monotone chant. I think of what they mean, and I try to reach beyoind their apparent meaning.

Men du, Herre, är en sköld omkring mig.
Du är min ära, du lyfter upp mitt huvud.

My thoughts are drifting. I restrain them.

Jag ropar högt till Herren, och han svarar mig från sitt heliga berg.

I think again of the words. I think of the saints. I ask their help.

Jag lade mig och somnade, jag vaknade igen, ty Herren håller mig uppe.

I pray for forgiveness, strength, wisdom and courage.

Jag fruktar ej för skaror av många tusen,
som ansätter mig från alla sidor.

One of the brothers has started burning incense. Its grassy smell fills the air. I'm not sure if I like it or not.

Stå upp, Herre, fräls mig, min Gud!
Du slår alla mina fiender på kinden, du krossar de ogudaktigas tänder.

I decide I like the smell of the incense.

Hos Herren finns frälsningen. Låt din välsignelse komma över ditt folk!

I try to chant along, but there are no words from my mouth. I sit silent. The monks start their next psalm. It is early morning, and I am trying to get back on my feet.