Palm Sunday in the season of coronavirus

God, I am wearing the new underwear
and nobody can see it,
even on Zoom,
actually, even if we were in the sanctuary.

I feel like waving myself
with all my heart,
even alone in my home,
not just de-nuding the trees,
but waving me — with my fears
about whether I won’t have enough breath
to shout Hosanna,
about whether someone I love
will get sick,
or make a racist remark about asians
that makes me feel sick.

In fact, I’m afraid of random unrealisms —
my grandkids will forget me,
the first symptom — not tasting —
is going to arrive
at the same time as dark cadbury eggs,
someone will say what I do or who I am
is not essential,
or stand too close to me,
or, or, or, or …

and so I fit in that fickle crowd —
wanting to petting the extra little donkey,
the colt that turns up in Matthew,
or listen with Luke
to the songs the stones sing,

or wear my new bright mask,
effective or not,
sort of like palm branches,
(and easier to show than, well, you know)

because it waves that we belong together
lifting up the gates of love.

Barbara Kellam Scott’s masks

 

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3 Responses to Palm Sunday in the season of coronavirus

  1. “… it waves that we belong together
    lifting up the gates of love.”

    Thank you so much for these words, Maren. Thank you.

  2. into the depths of all of us, “lifting up the gates of love”, reminds me of Moses holding up his arms,

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