This time of year growing up, opening our backyard pool for the summer revealed a dark soup of algae, bloaded Nerf balls, and even a dead squirrel.

But somehow, after the hard work of skimming and chlorinating, that pool became the most luminous part of the summer months.

I’ve been thinking about that again—this May, this Typika season—how beauty reemerges through what’s been stripped away.

What [the Typika] helps me remember is that all those dozens of blessings in a Liturgy aren’t just lines in a priest’s service book—they’re part of a rhythm. A giving and receiving. A call and response that prefigures the cosmic dialogue between heaven and earth, God and His creatures. Priestly blessings are not merely permission slips or transactions, but the beats of a pulse meant to be shared.

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