A conversation that took place in my office this past week:

DENISE: (to Audie) Today’s Tamara’s birthday! I brought her some flowers and some mint. (as Tamara enters) Hi! (pointing to a tiny boquet of home-grown flowers) Here’s a birthday boquet for you! (pointing to a bunch of mint leaves) And here’s some birthday mint for your tea!

TAMARA: Oh, my! Thank you! (pause, turning on the computer) Well, we had a good time last night. We ate at the Mexican restaurant.

DENISE: For your birthday?

TAMARA: Yes.

DENISE: Oh, I see. You had to have your birthday dinner last night because you’re going to the track meet tonight, right?

TAMARA: We had my birthday dinner last night because yesterday was my birthday.

Now considering the fact that Tamara and I have worked together for 12 years or so, this would have been rather embarrassing were it not for the fact that she can never remember the date of my birth or even the month. Lesson learned: If you’re going to be forgetful, hang out with someone more forgetful than yourself!

Recently I was walking across our campus and saw that the teacher for our K-grade 2 faculty/staff children had the kids out doing foot races. Everyone was running gleefully except for one little fellow who was having a meltdown. He sat on a rock, the hood of his neon-orange raincoat pulled over his downcast head.

“It’s not fair!” he wailed. “I always lose! In every race, I always lose!”

One of his small buddies approached to offer support. He stooped slightly to get down on his friend’s level. “When I run really fast my brain hurts!” he offered. I have no idea how that was supposed to help, but bless his little heart, he tried.

Aren’t little kids the greatest?

Don’t you just hate it when you do something that makes you feel about a half-inch tall?

I work in our school’s print shop. One of our pet peeves is people who knock on the door. They’re not supposed to knock. They’re supposed to come in and then one of the kindly print shop workers will assist them. You see, when they knock we have to stop whatever we’re doing and go answer the door. We may be at the computer. We might be on the phone. We could be in the back of the shop, running the labeling machine (in which case we wouldn’t even hear the knock at the door.)

We used to have a particular employee who always–always–knocked, even though we’d told her countless times that she didn’t have to do that. And one of our former kindly print shop workers would tell her, “You don’t knock on the door at WalMart, do you? Just come in!” But the next time she came calling we’d hear that tap-tap-tap once more.

It seems to me that this week we’ve had an unusually high number of rapping knuckles at our door. So today, there I sat, alone at my desk when it happened again. Knock, knock. “Oh, bother,” thought I. “Now what?” It was a gentle tapping. Knock, knock, knock. “Who’s knocking? You know, I shouldn’t get up and answer it. If they want in badly enough, they’ll just have to open the door!” Knock, knock. Knock, knock. Persistent little devil, wasn’t he/she? “Oh, all right. I’ll get it!”

I opened the door and there stood “Molly,” our one-armed student. Her lone arm was holding a load of books and in her only hand was the note she was trying to deliver to my co-worker. I’m not even sure how she’d been knocking.

But Molly wasn’t irritated. She smiled brightly, as she always does. I meekly took her note and smiled back. That’s all you can do when you’re about a half-inch tall.

Monday evening I went with a group of friends to see a passion play at a church in a nearby town. They did a wonderful job, and it was quite moving. As the Roman soldiers drove the spikes into Jesus’ feet and wrists and lifted the cross into place, my only thought was a truth I’ve known all my life that still at times seems utterly surreal.

God sent us His Son and we crucified Him.

Lord, have mercy on us all. Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.

They sit alone,

in silver silence gleaming

through the thin, white shroud

that covers them with gentle folds.

Within them wait the wafers and the wine,

a symbol lingering through the years

to make a memory come alive.

He lay alone,

in shadowed silence resting

‘neath the thick, pale wrap

that bound Him up, His body dead.

But then within, the man began to stir,

returning through the door of death

to prove the power of our God.

I stand alone,

in spellbound silence wondering

at the thin, dim veil

that keeps Him from my seeking eyes.

Beyond, with arms outstretched, He beckons me

to rise above this wordly wall

and let my soul commune with His.

Michael and I must be two of the few remaining people in the U.S. who do not own a cell phone. So you may think I’m prejudiced, and perhaps you’re right.

But still I say, “People! When you go to a concert, a play, a recital, or for goodness’ sake a worship service, please turn your cell phone off!  And if you absolutely must leave it on, then ANSWER it when it rings, for crying out loud! If that call is so all-fire important that it was worth disturbing the mood for the audience and breaking the concentration of the musicians/actors/etc., then doesn’t it need to be answered?!”

In other words, when there’s a passion play and Jesus is suffering his last moments of agony on the cross and suddenly the silence is broken by the merry melody of a cell phone that rings…and rings…and rings…and rings…That’s not cool.

Today we celebrate Palm Sunday.

I’ve seen the scene acted out in plays and films. Jesus, meek and mild, riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. People everywhere, lining the streets to shout “Hosanna!” and honor him as king. You’ve probably seen it, too. Think back. In the scenes you’ve watched, was he smiling?

You see, I’ve been wondering today if he smiled. I’ve been wondering what he felt, what he thought as he swayed with the rhythm of his humble steed and surveyed the crowd. They swayed, too, palm branches in hand. I’m sure they were smiling. It’s Jesus I’m wondering about.

As his gaze took in the joyous faces and his ears feasted on the chorus of, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” did he think for at least one moment, “Maybe this is it?” We know that a few days later Jesus would be kneeling in Gethsemane, sweating blood and praying, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me.” At that point he was thinking–or at least hoping–there might still be another way.

So what about that day on the donkey? Did he know how quickly the worshiping  throng would become a bloodthirsty mob? Did he bask in the praises and wonder for only a second if perhaps the Father had surprised him with a wildly fantastic change of plans? If so, he might have dared to smile…until a cloud passed over the sun and a shadow crossed his heart and he remembered why he had come.

May we, too, remember why he came as we celebrate Palm Sunday.

Well, last weekend we had ourselves some snow. Actually, we didn’t get nearly as much as the forecast predicted we might, but it was still more than we’d had in a while. All in all, it’s been a mild winter for us, so I’ve had no complaints. The snow just got me to thinking about seasons.

Kentucky has been my home all of my life. I’ve always enjoyed the seasons, though at times I’m guilty of griping about them a bit. I grew up without central air-conditioning, but now put me in the heat on a 95-degree summer day, and I think I’m going to wilt away. And, like most folks, I guess, I mutter when I can’t drive wherever I want to go because of ice and snow.

I have extended family in the Los Angeles area. Occasionally I wonder, “How do they stand not having seasons like we do?” I don’t mean simply not having a white Christmas. (We usually don’t have that, either!) I mean all of it. Yet the older I get, the more I think “Hey! I could deal with that!” But could I?

The seasons are helpful to us in more ways than one. They teach us about the seasons of life. There are phases we think of more commonly–being newlyweds, having small children, parenting teenagers, dealing with the empty nest and then the senior years. These are periods we go through in linear fashion, moving ever forward. But there are also seasons that wax and wane like the tides–personal health and illness, financial feast and famine, family discord and peace.

I have felt a spring-like breeze whisper against my cheek in the middle of winter. I’ve bundled up against the sudden chill of an early fall. These unexpected fluctuations can surprise and even delight. Yet even if the change is slower and more predictable, the message is the same: there will always be change.

This past weekend Clay took a picture of daffodils rearing buttery heads through the pristine snow. Winter gives way to spring once more. I have learned that when problems come, whether great or small, they will eventually pass…or I will adapt until they aren’t such problems after all. And I’ve also learned that when life is grand, appreciate it. Savor every moment because this, too is a season.

And seasons always change.

DUST

A thin

layer fits

foot to

footprint,

revives

a moment

we don’t

remember

but can’t

forget.

– Father Leonard Cochran. O.P.

NARRATOR: “Now from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land until the ninth hour. And…Jesus cried with a loud voice saying…’My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?’…and Jesus cried out…and yielded up his spirit…

“There were many women there, looking on from a distance, who had followed him from Galilee, ministering to him.” *

WOMAN: (stands holding one or more long pieces of cloth) I was a follower of Jesus, but not until the very end. But you see, I had no idea it was the end. My name is unimportant. You won’t find me in your Bible, because I’m not there. But I was there–when Jesus came to town.

I had heard of him, of course, but I had never seen him until that day. The things he did and taught…I had never seen or heard anything like it before. When the time came for him to leave, I knew I had to hear more. Jesus intrigued me with his teaching. But why did he say these things? Who was this man?

Jesus had twelve men who were his disciples. But other people followed him, too, including a number of women. Does that surprise you? If you’re a guy, maybe. If you’re a woman, probably not. We ladies know that men need looking after. The women cooked for the men, washed and mended their clothes, things like that. I didn’t have much family, so it was easy for me to travel. When Jesus and his disciples left town, I went with them.

And now it’s come to this. I followed him for such a short time. I wanted to listen to him, to learn from him, to help take care of him. But everything happened so fast; it was all a blur. One day he was riding into Jerusalem like a king, being cheered by the crowd. Another day, beaten and flogged and…crucified.

The men disappeared, all except John. But we women, we stayed, huddled together near his cross. We were so used to always doing things, and suddenly there was absolutely nothing we could do but stand there…and watch him die.

What did Jesus do to deserve this? Why was he hanging there? And then he looked at me and I knew. I didn’t understand it, I couldn’t comprehend, but somehow I knew. He was there for me. Suddenly I realized that I should have been on that cross, not him. But he took my place. Why would he do that?

Did you know that when he died, even the very soldiers who crucified him said, “Truly, this was the Son of God!” The Son of God? And he died for me?

We’re getting ready to bury the body now. We don’t have time to wrap him properly because it’s almost Sabbath. But we’ll do our best. All I wanted was to help take care of him. (looking at the cloths) I guess now I can.

THE END

* Matthew 27:45-46, 50, 55