Palms

Palms come in all shapes and sizes.

Swaying in the air to the rhythm of songs of praise and welcome outside the gates, palms initiate Holy Week. As a child, the palms signaled something new. Along with the music, which was lighter and brighter, there was a feeling of relief in the air. The dark days of Lent were over, I thought, and I used my palm to tickle my sister’s neck ever so lightly like a mosquito. That is, until my mother's glare reminded me the palms were holy symbols of a sacred day long ago.

Even then, though, I struggled to understand how the story could go from palms one minute, to a cross the next, how “Hosanna” could turn to “Crucify," how welcoming could become killing. Shaking my head as a child at “those people back then,” I now see how similar we all are.

Palms still come in all shapes and sizes.

We’re just as able to get caught up in the excitement, as they were then. We can lift our palms and shout praises as they did, even if only to be like others. We can also change our songs to shouts over night.

Denying it, keeps the week neat, tidy and safe. Admitting it, begins to unlock the deep mystery that makes the week Holy.