With Palm Sunday Holy Week begins.
I love how the Palm Sunday feels so different, so holy.
And even through the wreckage that was Mass last night, including the "pom-pom" fights, the endless tantrums, the teething baby who didn't want to be held nor put down, the extended music, the long readings, and fielding 194 questions of "Is Mass over yet?!?", it still had the gravity of a liturgy of singular importance. Even through all the distractions so painful at times I thought it would be much easier to walk over hot coals than remain till after the closing prayer, the beauty of the Mass still got through to me in a simple, mysterious way. It is a momentous day, a holy week.
I'm always reminded of this poem by Chesterton once Palm Sunday rolls around. I like the drama of it, which to me is how Palm Sunday always seems -- dramatic. With Palm Sunday you can almost imagine how tangible the expectation and suspense of what was to happen next with the incredible man named Jesus. In this little poem, through a topsy-turvy lens Chesterton perfectly illustrates the unexpected which is something that Holy Week can never loose.
Praying your Holy Week is blessed.
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