Seeing Better (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

"I could die tomorrow,” I told her.  “Without ever having pink glasses.”

The sales associate looked at me with her head cocked, eyebrows raised and conceded the point. 

I’ve had the same small, brown glasses frames since 2011. I chose them not long before the twins were born in that end-of-pregnancy flurry of getting everything done before life changes irrevocably.  Dentist? Check.  Glasses? Check. 

In the exam room the optometrist looked up, surprised, from his chart.  “This says I haven’t seen you since 2013?” he asks. 

“Yep.” I reply.

“And you bought contacts then?  How often do you change them?  Do you have any left?”  He voice conveys incredulity.

“Well, yeah.  I don’t wear my contacts much.”  I fumble through my memory bank, drawing a blank.  “I don’t know,” I finally reply, “I had twins, so the last couple of years are a little blurry.” 

The answer seems to satisfy. 

In the sales room, a young woman follows me around among the frames.  I ask her what’s “in” these days and she tells me bigger plastic frames. 

“What are you looking for?” she asks, calm and detached behind her half-framed lenses of dark blue metal.  Her dark hair is long and perfectly straight. 

“I want something fun,” I said, “some color.”

What I really wanted, before I even walked in the door, was pink glasses.  I wanted happy glasses, but I wasn’t sure I dared get them.  What if I made a mistake?    

I feel like a failure when the optometrist pulls up letters I can’t read.  Blinking, I watch letters flip and wiggle like so many small black ants waving their legs.  I make random guesses, occasionally upping my odds by offering two answers at once.  “Um, I think it’s an E . . . or a P?”  One line I cannot read at all.  The exam room is so strangely intimate, dimly lit, with the optometrist scooting around on his rolling stool, peering into my eyes with a little light that he moves in circles like a magic wand.   

My left eye, weak as ever, has worsened again, but, good news, I’m not yet in need of bifocals. 

Back in the sale’s room, the associate hands me purple glasses and offers red.  But I don’t want purple glasses, purple glasses don’t make me happy and red glasses bring to mind Sally Jesse Raphael (please tell me I’m not the only one who remembers THAT).  Then she motions toward an almost translucent light pink pair, but before she can pick them up, I say, “I think I had those glasses in fourth grade and I don’t really want to go back to that.”

In the end, I whittle it down to two pairs, identical in shape, one navy blue and the other a cheery magenta.  Both frames have funky squiggly patterns in complementary colors along the temples.  Both pairs are cute, but the blue look better on me.

Still, I hem and haw.  A second associate is called over.  She put the glasses on her own face for me.  “See,” she says, “these blue ones kinda blend in but with the pink ones, the frames are all you see.”  I see what sees and know she's right.  Then she adds a third pair into the mix, shaped like the others, but in a deeper shade of purple.  "These make a nice compromise," she says.  But her well-intended suggestion only further confuses things for me.    

I circle the room, I sit again and slip frames off and on. 

“I’m turning forty in a year,” I tell the original associate, “maybe these will be my mid-life crisis glasses.”  I'm only half-joking.  Do I like the pink glasses or do I only like the ‘idea’ of pink glasses? 

“You’ll want to think about the clothes you wear too, not just what you have one today,” the second woman adds. 

“But pink goes with everything, right?” I ask, “Except for red?”

The younger woman agrees. “Pink goes with everything in my book,” she says.  I find her patience endearing.

I apologize for taking so long.  Then, finally, “I want the pink ones,” I say, scrunching my face up as if to offer an apology.

“I knew you did,” she says.  

(I knew I did too.)  

(Friends - it's my birthday this week!  Hop over to my facebook page to see a picture of me in my new glasses and, if you haven't done so already, LIKE MY PAGE.  I've been hovering near 600 page likes for a long time now and there's nothing I'd like more for my birthday than to finally cross that 600 mark.  Thanks!)
   

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I'm super excited to be joining with Andi Cumbo-Floyd and Shawn Smucker to organize a weekend writer's retreat this summer at God's Whisper Farm in the beautiful mountains of Virginia.  Visit Andi's website for more info!

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

How All Our Salvation Begins (#SmallWonder Link-up)

(For the past several months, I've participated in a group organized by Oasis Ministries that meets for monthly silent retreat days.  We meet one Saturday a month at an old farm turned retreat center near Elizabethown, PA.)

I arrive in the nick of time, lugging a bag of books, my purse and a packed lunch.  Inside the old farm door I exchange greetings with a few and make my way to the bathroom.  Then I throw back a quick cup of coffee – I’m not fully awake yet – and head in to join the circle of silence. 

After a period of silent prayer and some brief reflection, the nine of us split off in different directions.  I make a beeline for more coffee and then head upstairs to a bedroom alone.  I journal briefly before doing what I know cannot be put off any longer.  Tipping to my side, I curl up with an ugly blanket on an even uglier couch and, in seconds, I drift off to sleep.

I wake to lunch time.  In the cold dining room, I eat around a long table with women who are mostly twenty to thirty years older than me.  I crunch red peppers and carrot sticks and crack my hard boiled egg too loudly on the table before realizing I can crush it gently with my fingers.  I drink hot tea at lunch, a follow-up to my hot coffee, because I’m cold and can’t seem to get warm. 

After lunch I find a sunny spot by a window and pile out my books and journals.  I thumb through a Birds and Blooms magazine cutting pictures and words that strike my eye with scissors I stole from my three-year-old’s office.  Then we gather again at the circle, for more silence and sharing around our reading for the month. 

During afternoon retreat time I head outside with more coffee and sit briefly on a bench watching bees buzz happy among the clover.  Then, still cold, I remember the black bed-liner in my husband’s old, red, pickup truck.  The black bed draws the sun like a magnet and climbing in I’m greeted by warmth and the smell of gasoline.  I unpack again, books and journal, in the bed of the truck, my back tucked into the corner.  I run inside one more time briefly for my sunglasses and trade my cup of coffee for a plastic cup of water.

In the truck, I read a bit and try to write poems that wilt, listless on the page.  I eat the perfect orange, slowly, beneath the blue sky of spring.  In all of this I wonder, what am I doing here?  I’m deliberately unproductive on these days, deliberately leaving behind the laptop, setting no firm expectation for the day.  There’s prayer, yes, but most of the day feels decidedly unremarkable, strikingly unholy. 

There are no angel choirs, no visions from heaven.  I do spy a pileated woodpecker outside the whirled glass window at lunch, but if he’s meant to deliver a message from God, I fail on the receiving end.  It isn’t until the closing of the day that I remember again a bit of reading, a quote from Thomas Merton, “. . . all our salvation begins on the level of common and natural and ordinary things.”

The word “all” is what gets me, sticks like taffy in my soul’s teeth. 

I marvel at how unholy, how unremarkable these days apart seem most months and, on the whole, they’re filled with “common and natural and ordinary things.”  This much I cannot deny – food and rest, silence and small chatter, an ugly blanket, the warm black bed of a pickup truck. 

But Merton, sly fox, tips things up-side-down in one short sentence.  These things, he whispers, these. 

Carrots and coffee and sliced red pepper, quiet moments flipping pages soaked in sun, that orange, the smell of gasoline, the happy bees drinking life one blossom at a time.  

These things, he whispers, these. 

It’s then, at the end of the day, that I accept again the invitation to surrender to God’s backward ways of transformation.  God’s proclivity for infusing the material with divine.  

The door is everywhere.  All our salvation begins.   

*   *   *   *

I'm super excited to be joining with Andi Cumbo-Floyd and Shawn Smucker to organize a weekend writer's retreat this summer at God's Whisper Farm in the beautiful mountains of Virginia.  Visit Andi's website for more info!

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

Hooked and Unhooked (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

God lies in wait for us with nothing so much as love, and love is like a fisherman's hook . . ." Meister Eckhart

Recently, a friend I respect deeply talked with me about a job opening.  He told me he knew I could do the job and that he would support me 100%, but that it would be costly in terms of energy, hard on me and my family.  Then he added, “Unless you feel like God’s calling you to it.” 

“He’s not,” I said, smiling and shaking my head.  “I feel like I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing right now.”

He smiled.  “Well, that makes me happy,” he said, “I know that’s not always been the case.”

“I know!” I replied.  “I used to think I wanted that job, but I finally realized I felt like I should want that job.  There’s a big difference between the two and I’m so thankful for that clarity.”

//

Later I told a friend about the exchange.  “I’ve been hooked by that job in so many ways over the past few years,” I said.  “I can’t hardly explain how good it feels to know I could have it now and I don’t want it.  It’s like . . . ,” I closed my eyes, my hands paused mid-sentence and waited for the image to come.  “It’s like being a fish that’s been hooked on a line for years and suddenly you find yourself free, you can swim wherever you want!  It doesn’t feel like something of my own doing, it feels like more of a surprise, like someone reached down and cut the line.”  

//

I was thinking of all this today, about the hook and the line and the marvelous freedom.  Freedom from one thing only ever really comes when we shift our devotion to something or someone else.  And I know, in this season, that devotion to writing and caring for my children is helping me find freedom from the things I once thought I should be doing, but I also know I've been hooked by something deeper.  

Pulling the roaster chicken, crisp and golden from the oven this afternoon and putting rice on to boil, I remembered a passage from The River Why, by David James Duncan.  It's a quirky and profound book about a man obsessed with fly fishing who has an encounter with God while walking home after a long night of fishing. 

And then I felt it - a sharp pain in the heart, like a hook being set.  I whirled around: sunlight struck me full in the face.  My eyes closed. 

And then I saw it - the vertical bar - a line so subtle it must be made of nothing nameable.  And it ran from my heart of earth and blood, through my head, to the sky; ran like a beam of watery light; ran from the changing, flowing forms of the world to a realm that light alone could enter.  I sank to my knees on the white road and I felt the hand, resting like sunlight on my head.  And I knew that the line of light led not to a realm, but to a Being, and that the light and the hook were his, and that they were made of love alone.  My heart was pierced, I began to weep.  I felt the Ancient One drawing me toward him, coaxing me . . . beckoning me on toward undying joy.

//

When I think about Duncan's story, I see how I've been hooked and unhooked all at once, how being captivated by Love can and does set us free.  Not an easy freedom, but one hard won that, after all of our fear, fighting and struggle, comes as a surprise, like a hand reaching down to cut the line when we'd almost forgotten what freedom felt like.  

*   *   *

We finally have a #SmallWonder button!  If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.  

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

What I Wanted and What Love Offered (Grace and the Salt and Vinegar Hang-Over) #SmallWonder

Wednesday morning I wanted to get 3000 words on the page, or at least 1500.  I wanted to practice yoga for twenty minutes, to enjoy the sunshine and silence of the Little House after a week of kids being home for spring break. 

But the night before I popped open a tall can of Diet Coke when I should have been winding down for bed.  In full disclosure, there was a bag of chips involved too, a late dinner of sorts and when John went to bed at 10, I didn’t.  Instead I searched the house, three, four times until I found the novel I put down earlier in the day.  I prowled the house hunting for it repeating the words, “This is so annoying,” over and over in my head like a chant.  Finding it, finally, where someone else had put it, I crawled into bed and turned on the reading lamp. 

At 10:20, I thought, “Just ten more minutes.”  

Then, at 10:30, “A few more pages.”

It wasn’t even a good book. 

At any moment last night, had I paused to listen closely to my soul, I would have realized (in fact I did realize) I was tired and sad and looking for comfort.  What I really needed was rest and compassion.  Snuggling with my husband would have been a good option.  Instead when he asked how my appointment was, I mumbled “fine.”  I opened the can and pressed a handful of The Worst Salt and Vinegar chips I've ever had into my mouth. 

When I next looked at the clock, it was 11:30. 

I finished the book.  

I finished the can of soda.  

(I did not, I repeat, Did Not, finish the bag of chips.)  

I slid down into bed, head jangling with caffeine, regret whirling and slid the alarm clock on for 6:00 am.

In the morning I crawled out of bed with the weight of a reading-diet-coke-hangover dragging behind me.  My eyes felt like hacky sacks.  The kids got out the door on auto-pilot, the twins made it to school, but driving home after drop-off exhaustion, frustration and regret followed me like a shadow. 

Doggedly, I headed to the little house, breakfast, water and the computer in hand.  I sat in my usual chair and warmed up with a few emails, then I opened a word document to let the writing begin.

My mind, my fingers, moved like molasses, heavy slow syrup slogging over the keys as I searched for words and thoughts that refused to come.  The dog, Coco, watched, her eyes half closed, from her chair across the room. 

I wanted 3000 words.  I wanted to practice yoga for twenty minutes. 

I desperately needed a nap. 

I had ruined that which I was looking forward to, my morning of writing and stretching, the feeling of forward momentum and accomplishment as I checked off my list of goals.  But it was what it was and I worked hard to not attach to the thoughts of judgment and condemnation that flew around my brain like a flock of scattered birds. 

Instead, I asked myself what Love would do, what I would tell my kids if, when, they find themselves in the same predicament. 

Love offered a nap. 

Love said, “It is what it is.”

“But this is my time to write!” I told Love, “I didn’t write yesterday and I have a meeting this afternoon, parent conferences tonight.” I pointed out to Love that there were no other options, I had, in essence, Ruined Everything.

Love said, pointedly, “What about grace?  Maybe there's enough grace in this world to make up for this one mistake.  But, for now, all you know is what you know.  You need a nap.”

I also heard the words of a counselor I met with four years ago, a counselor whose constant advice and need to fix things pushed me away.  “Love what is,” she had offered one day.  How I hated those words – they weren’t the right words for me at the time, but now, four years later, they’re the only words that make sense some days. 

What other option do we ever really have?  We can change "what is," of course, but change, if it's to be lasting and fruitful, must be rooted in love, not fear or hatred of self or others or even "what is." 

Love your tired, sleepy self.  Do what is needed in this moment and the next.

Is that not what I failed to do the night before?  Diet Coke, Salt and Vinegar and a novel are okay.  But they don’t really address what is.  (Unless “what is” is the sincere desire to stay up late, to enjoy the feeling of fire on your tongue, to savor and enjoy words put together on a page, then they’re Exactly what’s needed.)

I set the computer aside and laid down on the floor of the little house, my head on a pillow, blanket tucked up tight.  I slept.  Love said that was fine. 

*   *   *

We finally have a #SmallWonder button!  If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.  

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

  

The Day After (#SmallWonder Link-up)

The rain this morning sounds like sleet.  It’s the Monday after Resurrection day.  Plundered Easter baskets spew plastic grass on these old wood floors and the hollow chocolate bunnies have lost their ears and faces. 

The oldest boy is sick, again, even though he's already on antibiotics.  This winter he barely clears one hurdle before hitting the next.  Today I’ll call the Dr. and leave a message explaining the latest symptoms and we’ll probably head into the office again for more tests which will likely confirm a virus.  

Maybe this is how it always is, the day after resurrection and the day after that - the chaos, the mess, the uncertain way forward, this working out of our salvation.  This is not to say nothing has changes, but what has changed is still only the seed of what will be and we are, again, gardeners tending its slow and steady progress. 

*   *   *

We finally have a #SmallWonder button!  If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.  

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  

Palm Sunday: The First Day of Spring (#SmallWonder Link-up)

This post is loosely based on Luke 19:28-40, the gospel story of Jesus' entry into Jerusalem.  In preparing to preach on the passage this Sunday, I decided to spend some time inside the passage, imagining what it might have been like.  This story is told from the perspective of Simon the Zealot who I imagine being, along with Philip, asked to walk into town to fetch the colt for Jesus.  I can't overestimate how very helpful this practice was for me.  I hope you might also find some time this week to wander around inside of the gospel stories.

*    *    *

It felt like the first day of spring. Like everything we waited for was so close we could almost taste it.

We were close to Jerusalem. The closer we got, the edgier we were. Jesus was quiet. When we reached the Mount of Olives, Jesus turned to me and Philip. He chose us, and told us to go and look for a colt in the next village, it would be tied to a post and we were supposed to just walk up and take it.

How did he know this?

We didn’t ask. He chose us, that was all that ever mattered.  Jesus and the rest stayed resting under the shade of the olive trees. Philip and I walked alone.

When you were with him, walking beside him, it was like feeling the sun on your back – faith rose and blossomed. But with every step we took away from him, faith dimmed. Clouds of doubt rolled in.  Our confidence wilted as we walked toward the village.

We hardly dared to think, much less talk about what might happen when we reached Jerusalem.  Instead, his stories ran through my head. Everywhere we went he spun stories, painting pictures with words. I tried to make sense of them, but I couldn’t. Maybe I didn’t want to.

Bethany was small and dirty, like every other village, nothing special. The smells and sounds nearly knocked me out after the quiet walk through the countryside. It was hot, the sun was unbearable. I envied the disciples left behind, resting under the trees. The village seemed to go on forever. Women stared as we passed. Children ran up to touch our robes, then scrambled away laughing. We weren’t used to this feeling of travel, of being strange and out of place.

The further we walked, the more foolish we felt. Reason raised its head - why this village? Why a colt? And where? Where was it?

At the far edge of town, we heard it. A donkey brayed. I stopped mid-thought, put my hand out to stop Philip in his tracks. Again, we heard it, the screeching sound like metal grinding against metal. It came from somewhere to the right. We followed a small path through a thicket. Our steps slowed, nervously. Then we came to the edge of a clearing. An ancient stone house stood silent, a fire smoldered in a pit. Chickens pecked the ground. Off to one side stood a young donkey tied, just as he had said.

My heart leapt. Philip grabbed my arm and squeezed tight. Our eyes met wide with surprise and glee. It was all we could do to keep from laughing. Never before has the sight of a donkey been cause for such joy.

Giddiness propelled me. I rushed toward the colt. It skidded sideways, stretching the rope taunt. The colt erupted in a string of screeches, its lips pulled back, teeth exposed. I lunged for the rope, ready for a fight, when Philip again grabbed my arm.

“Simon,” he said.

I followed his eyes toward the house. A small man slowly emerged from the shadows. I pulled my hand back from the colt immediately. Behind him a woman and a small child peaked out of the doorway. Chickens squawked and scattered as he crossed the open yard.

I have never seen such a short man, he would’ve made Zaccheaus look like a giant. He had a grave and wrinkled face. He seemed coated with a lifetime of hard work and dirt. My heart sank. He would never let us have this animal. I thought of the sword at my side, it wouldn’t take much. But the woman and child, watched from the doorway.

Philip bowed in greeting and I followed. The little man bowed.

Braced for anger, his simple question disarmed me. “Why are you untying the colt?”

Why.

Why not, I thought. Why should we not take whatever we needed to overthrow the Romans? Why try to explain the unexplainable to this dirty man in his dark hut?

Philip’s hand was still on my arm. I stared at the little man, so solidly rooted to the ground and remembered Jesus’ words, “if they ask why, tell them ‘the Lord needs it.’”

Everything was always so unbelievably simple with Jesus, the simplicity itself was confusing.

“The Lord needs it,” I said.

The little man caught my eyes with his own and held them. I watched him measure the truthfulness of my words. I knew he likely guessed my thoughts about my sword, my urgency, and frustration.

Something in my eyes satisfied and he turned to the colt. He reached out and patted the animal, murmuring into its long ears. “Take it,” he said simply, then turned and walked away.

Our excitement grew with every step back through the village. We marched into the olive grove like victors returning from battle. The donkey brayed and bucked at the rope. Everyone gathered around shouting questions, slapping us on the back, startling the colt. “How? Where?” they asked.

“It was just like he said, just like it,” I repeated, grinning and proud forgetting the doubt I’d carried across town.

Then Jesus pushed in to the circle. He smiled at our surprise and delight. His tired eyes crinkled in the corners. His robe was wrinkled and dusty from resting on the ground.

“You did well, Simon,” he said, clamping his hand on my shoulder and fixing his eyes on mine. “You too, Philip,” he added. Like I said, he was like the sun, you know? And when he shone on you, it was something you never forgot.

Jesus took the rope and leaned in quietly toward the donkey. He patted it, whispered in its twitchy ears like the little man had. I think in that moment, the colt felt just as loved as we did, just as happy and full of hope and excitement. It stamped a foot and brayed flicking Jesus’ face with its ears and we all burst out laughing.

Peter pulled off his cloak and laid it on the donkey’s back. Nathan too, and Andrew, until the poor animal was draped with a rainbow of dirty robes.

It was time for Jerusalem.

I knelt right there in the dust and made a step with my hands. Jesus stepped and leaned while Andrew tried to steady the donkey. But the animal sidestepped and I teetered, pitching Jesus forward. His stomach landed with a thud on the donkey’s back, knocking the wind out of his lungs. I was so embarrassed, but Jesus pulled himself up laughing again and swung his leg over the side.

When he laughed, it unleashed something inside of us. We were like boys again, free and happy. Here we were, in the biggest adventure of our lives, with Jesus at our side and the wonder of it carried us all along.

Jesus led the colt toward Jerusalem, leaning to whisper again in its ear, scratching the coarse hair where the rope hung around its neck. Moving forward, a nervousness settled over the crowd of us again. Then we followed and with each step our excitement grew.

Thomas started the singing. His deep voice rose and the others joined in following the words of the psalm we all knew. The psalm of victory. I heard the words entirely new as we sang them there in the dusty streets out under the open sky.

I wanted, waited, all of my life for a King.

Here he was and here we were together, marching into Jerusalem. But not marching, nearly dancing. As much as I wanted it to be different, as much as I remembered the sword at my side and my dreams of a mighty king on horseback leading me into battle, I was happy. Happy with this fool of a man plodding along on a donkey’s back, this man who loved me.

I felt my love for him surge in my chest as we repeated again and again the chorus of the Psalm, “Give thanks to the Lord for he is good, his steadfast love endures forever.”

I wasn’t the only one off pitch. Philip had no rhythm, not an ounce of tune, and we were an ugly bunch weaving our way into town, drunk on good news and friendship and the love we all needed. They heard us first (probably smelled us second) and women and children wandered out to watch us.

Such a strange parade. We sang at the top of our lungs, jostling each other, slapping shoulders and backs. Peter reached out and grabbed a boy in the crowd, swung him on his shoulders and Andrew jumped to reach a palm branch. Breaking it, he placed it in the boy’s hand and the boy cheered and waved like mad.

There’s something about a people, so beaten down with sorrow and fear, there’s little left to lose. Maybe this is what made them join us, welcome us, break branches of their own and join the singing, the dancing and shouting. Some stripped off their robes and laid them in the street and Jesus was there in the middle of it all, steady and solid as the sky.

Things got a little out of hand.

But that never seemed to bother Jesus. He got tired sometimes, needed rest and space, but he didn’t try to control us. He let us be however we were, welcomed us and that day we were happy and he didn’t bother to contradict.

But the Pharisees did.

It was one of the things they hated the most about him, the way he refused to control us. He didn’t seem to need to control anyone and therefore refused himself to be controlled. It bothered me too, if I’m honest. I couldn’t figure out how he might overthrow the Romans without taking for himself some measure of the power and control they exerted over us. But it bothered me less when I was with him, then it felt like I could believe anything and, if I’m honest, I thought he would change when we got to Jerusalem.

To the Pharisees, it was blasphemy, all of it. The way we sang and danced in the street, the image of Jesus on the donkey like some kind of street urchin playing king, it was all offensive. But mostly it smacked of disorder and freedom, two things they feared and fought tooth and nail.

“Rabbi, tell them to stop, make them stop!” they shouted.

Jesus turned from watching the dancing children, the singing men. I watched him meet the Pharisees’ eyes. My hand involuntarily drifted to the hilt of my sword. Jesus held the donkey still while all around him the crowd rose and swelled. There was amusement in his eyes and he smiled a sad smile.

“If I tell them to stop,” he said, “the stones you walk on will rise up singing and dancing. You cannot stop joy, my friends, cannot stop praise that flows like a river. Heaven and earth are being un-damned. We will sing and dance while we can.”

If we ever needed permission, we had it. We cheered and sang all the louder, “Give thanks to the lord for he is good, his steadfast love endures forever!”

It felt like the first day of spring, I tell you. Like everything we waited for was so close we could almost taste it. It was glorious.

//

It’s harder now, to talk about the rest. When we reached the inner edge of the Jerusalem, Jesus burst into tears and the words he spoke terrified and confused us. Confusion and fear followed us everywhere that week; it hunted us, hounded us.

For a long time, when I remembered Palm Sunday, I felt regret, embarrassment, how little we really understood.

But Jesus, he loved it. Now I know he carried our praise with him through the darkness that lay ahead. He focused on the memory of our singing when the crowds cried out for his death.

Jesus’ first desire wasn’t to change us. It was to be with us.

And his being with us, changed us, slowly into something closer to who he was, what he was.

I like to think of it like that – he carried us with him, our joy, our love, to the cross and we carry him with us, his joy, his love through every week ahead, singing and dancing or weeping in sorrow, we carry him, he carries us.

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We finally have a #SmallWonder button!  If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.  

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  

God Painted