It’s Palm Sunday. My favorite Sunday of the year. Tell me the stories of Jesus.
I really do love to hear.
And OH! The things I would ask Him to tell me.
If He were only here!!
I woke up this morning sans little ones and I purposed in my heart that I would rejoice and be glad.
And I was.
For about 2 hours.
2 hours until I stopped just long enough to listen to the silence.
Streaming down, unwelcome and uninvited, they come.
And darn-it-all. I was having a really good make-up day.
Except my mascara. I have this new mascara that I am telling you, you could cry a river and it.will.not.come. off. Which is totally beside the point, but I’m just saying if you are gonna cry, you might as well try to look your best while doing it. 🙂
I heard a sermon once on Palm Sunday about our tendency to move from celebration to celebration without the cross. We celebrate the entrance and his triumphant resurrection, but the week in the middle?
We skip it.
The dragging and the beating and the clanging of the nails. The tears and the mourning; the betrayal and the deception and that Peter-thing where we do the very thing we purpose not to do.
Missing the Passion is not my problem, though. Getting to Easter is.
Anne Lammott is quoted talking about being an Easter people living in a Good Friday world.
It’s probably more true that we are a Good Friday people living in a Good Friday world; Good Friday people looking, hoping, waiting.
But who am I to argue with Anne?
Wait. I have totally gone off point.
My make-up was running. I re-apply. My eyes look great.
I will not stay home on Palm Sunday.
I walked into church and I see the children.
All in a row. Palms ready for waving.
And I don’t even try.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
So I don’t even try.
Little guy asks, “Where’s Coulter?”
And I answer truthfully. “He’s at his Grandma’s in Lincoln.”
I leave out the harder truth. He is with his Dad.
And now I understand the term broken. Split in two. Torn apart.
Separated from one another.
And my friend sees me and even hidden behind my completely awesome (thank you Dr. Barrett) sunglasses, she can tell. She moves her family; the pastor’s family and they sit with me.
The hardest moments are always the ones that you don’t see coming. My heart is broken and it doesn’t feel like Palm Sunday.
It feels like Friday.
Like a winter that will never end.
Like maybe this is the year that Spring doesn’t come.
There’s a little blondie all dressed in pink. Her heart is precious and her thinking is deep and she spots Ms. Myra Katherine and she stops singing.
Because she’s worried.
And it is Friday.
And the wind is howling. I can hear it sing through the walls and rattle at the windows.
And there is snow on the ground.
And it is still winter.
The pastor started to preach and I continued to wipe tears and soak in truths and just everything he had to offer. Everything the Lord was speaking through him and I look over and my friend’s mother, our “Dana” is crying and the pastor himself chokes out his words and again, I think—
Blessed are those who mourn, for theirs is the Kingdom of God.
Good Friday. Jealousy, fear, pride, arrogance and well—
Just plain ‘ol mean.
And mean, I get.
A Good Friday world is mean.
And Easter seems impossible.
A world of forever, away.
And yet I know it comes because it has already—
And those who wait on the Lord will renew their strength; they will inherit the earth; the Lord will incline His ear to them. We are called to wait and run patiently the race that is set before us.
I’m running. The patient part is getting old, Lord.
But I am running. And I will not stop. And I will not be bullied. And I will not be threatened and I will not lose faith in the knowledge that—
Easter is coming.
Because Easter? As it turns out?
And the victory?