Palm Sunday

The palms we wave around like children,

All children,

Unable to resist the peeling and the bending and the twisting into crosses and crowns,

And marveling at the funny fact of bringing giant leaves into Church—

The palms we wave around like children

Are later ground into the dirt that’s later rubbed upon our foreheads,

Another marvel— dirt rubbed on foreheads—

But really not such a marvel when we listen to the words

To dust you shall return,

(The frightful words)

And then it all feels rather terrible–

Us and the palms,

Loss of innocence,

Sin,

Death and dying.

Did those children on the streets of Jerusalem realize what they were doing

While they waved their branches

And giggled at the donkey?

Did they realize what they were about to lose?

Did they realize what they were about to do?

Could it not have just stayed Palm Sunday forever?

I like to think

That when He raises up our bodies

Fusing bones back together, straightening out wrinkles and imperfections,

With the same mirth and merriment that He had when He first formed us,

That He’ll also gather up the ashes of the palms,

And knit them back into their proper place and 

Paint them green again

So that we can wave them round like children again,

All children again,

Unable to resist the peeling and the bending and the twisting into crosses and crowns,

And marveling at the funny fact of bringing giant leaves into Heaven.