Palm Sunday.
Bright, warm sun that lures the 4th and 5th grade leaders outside, small groups trailing out in front of us as we give them tasks to illustrate the idea of perseverance. One group is playing football, another trying to hit a target with a frisbee. My girls are scattered on a hillside, taking it in turns to run barefoot circles around the gym.
We move to the edge of the property, and they twirl through the long row of trees. Faster. Slower. Stopping to pull sharp things out of tender feet.
Palm Sunday, we take the time to play, even those of us who are all misplaced limbs and awkward timing. Because, I never have learned the art of making round things travel in the direction that I intend, but that doesn't seem to stop the kids. Not today, at least.
The 6th grade girls pull out an inflatable ball for volleyball before middle school starts. 8th grade boys the octagon. 6th grade boys for monkey in the middle after service. High schoolers for frisbee and four square before youth group.
And, perhaps, these are our palm branches, or mine, at least, this spring time laughter the cloaks that we throw under the feet of the approaching king.
A king on a colt.
All misplaced limbs and awkward, excited gait. The disciples must have shuffled through the branches, high stepping over sharp edges and kicking at things, now and again, the way that high schoolers so often do. Let themselves ignore the nagging hints of wrongness, because, today was a day for celebration.
And, I see them in these kids. In the one who throws things at me: tennis ball, chalk, wadded up bits of paper that ping off my cheek as we settle into breakout groups; see the teenaged disciples walking, playful along the road; wonder if, when the first one fell asleep in the garden, the others thought of throwing something at him to wake him up, or if it was the sort of slow falling where rooftop talks fade into blackness and then sunrise.
In the group that freezes in hesitation when someone suggests that we break apart and the halting conversation that follows, as if we're learning to walk with a missing limb; see how the two on the road to Emmaus could have missed it, been so caught up in their own heads, their own grief, that they didn't see their rabbi walking beside them.
In the way that we start to head towards the corner we've been pointed to, but they veer back to the red dot, the indicative rug where we always meet; see the disciples returned to their nets, back to the known and the familiar.
We're talking about the concept of Trinity tonight. They're more comfortable with the Holy Spirit than with this distinction between Son and Father, and I make a note to talk more about Jesus. More about Jesus than Paul. More about Jesus than the nuances of trinitarian heresy. More about Jesus to these ones who make me think so much of His very first followers.
Bright, warm sun that lures the 4th and 5th grade leaders outside, small groups trailing out in front of us as we give them tasks to illustrate the idea of perseverance. One group is playing football, another trying to hit a target with a frisbee. My girls are scattered on a hillside, taking it in turns to run barefoot circles around the gym.
We move to the edge of the property, and they twirl through the long row of trees. Faster. Slower. Stopping to pull sharp things out of tender feet.
Palm Sunday, we take the time to play, even those of us who are all misplaced limbs and awkward timing. Because, I never have learned the art of making round things travel in the direction that I intend, but that doesn't seem to stop the kids. Not today, at least.
The 6th grade girls pull out an inflatable ball for volleyball before middle school starts. 8th grade boys the octagon. 6th grade boys for monkey in the middle after service. High schoolers for frisbee and four square before youth group.
And, perhaps, these are our palm branches, or mine, at least, this spring time laughter the cloaks that we throw under the feet of the approaching king.
A king on a colt.
All misplaced limbs and awkward, excited gait. The disciples must have shuffled through the branches, high stepping over sharp edges and kicking at things, now and again, the way that high schoolers so often do. Let themselves ignore the nagging hints of wrongness, because, today was a day for celebration.
And, I see them in these kids. In the one who throws things at me: tennis ball, chalk, wadded up bits of paper that ping off my cheek as we settle into breakout groups; see the teenaged disciples walking, playful along the road; wonder if, when the first one fell asleep in the garden, the others thought of throwing something at him to wake him up, or if it was the sort of slow falling where rooftop talks fade into blackness and then sunrise.
In the group that freezes in hesitation when someone suggests that we break apart and the halting conversation that follows, as if we're learning to walk with a missing limb; see how the two on the road to Emmaus could have missed it, been so caught up in their own heads, their own grief, that they didn't see their rabbi walking beside them.
In the way that we start to head towards the corner we've been pointed to, but they veer back to the red dot, the indicative rug where we always meet; see the disciples returned to their nets, back to the known and the familiar.
We're talking about the concept of Trinity tonight. They're more comfortable with the Holy Spirit than with this distinction between Son and Father, and I make a note to talk more about Jesus. More about Jesus than Paul. More about Jesus than the nuances of trinitarian heresy. More about Jesus to these ones who make me think so much of His very first followers.
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