Palm Sunday reminds Christians that although our most worthy celebrations have been followed by dark hours of despair, our hope persists.
This morning’s sky is pale and formless. The palms in my view are water oak branches just beginning to leaf out. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty feet, or more, above my head, they sprawl beneath heaven’s floor.
They inspire no direction, but they whisper and hold me still.
Yesterday’s rain, held until this morning, plops in heavy droplets, one-by-one, on my hair and t-shirt as a soft warm breeze waves them down.
This baptism, held over for me by towering witnesses of yesterday’s storm, assures me that the energy of this moment is matched to its need.
I need to believe that our steps are ordered, that we are safe and loved, and that glory awaits.