lenten journal: palm sunday eve


    on the road home the miles feel
    faster than those on the road
    out of town – my body responds
    from muscle memory, my mind
    working like a pace car,knowing
    what to feel with each passing
    billboard, how long to wait,
    how to titrate the anticipation.
    familiar roads are shorter roads

    the road from here to resurrection
    is mapped in my mind (and my
    heart), from palms to parables,
    crowds to cross. I know the days,
    the steps, the words, the mileposts.
    my feet are covered with the
    dust from the feet of disciples
    who walked this way when the
    road was not so well marked

    and Holy Week had not yet
    become so hurried or harried.
    I don’t want to get to Easter
    because the road is familiar,
    or the liturgy expected. I want
    to be stricken and surprised,
    lost and found, broken and
    spilled out; I want to find my
    old footprints and know

    this is not the same old road.



    1. Wow does that ever speak to me! I too do not want this to be the same old road, but I haven’t found a satisfactory way of seeing it with new eyes this year. Maybe now, at the end, just a peep…

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