It’s Palm Sunday today. Most of your children have started making plans on how to get as far away from you as possible for the next eight more days or so. Actually, some of them have already giddily gone. And you will be left with those who might probably want to get rid of you too, only, they might not have the resources. And when the wanderers come back, they’d be whining about how they really don’t want to go back to you just yet, or how they really don’t want to go back to you ever if they only could, complaining about your dirty, noisy house. And those who could never get away from you, the wretchedly unresourceful, those who you yourself wouldn’t mind getting rid of for good, probably, would be mumbling to their whining siblings, “then why the hell come back?”
I’m sorry. Let me re-phrase.
It’s Palm Sunday today. Most of your children have started making plans on what adventure to embark on for the next eight more days or so, yearning to explore far off lands or shores. They will come back soon, anyway, you won’t be missing them for too long. And you will be happy to welcome them back, made richer in spirit by their travels, perhaps still dreaming of the places they’ve seen. And all that time they will be away, you will be kept company by your children who simply want to stay put, to keep still, and rest. You will have your rest too, you see, having time off from carrying the full weight of all your children. You need your rest, your peace and quiet, too. You have no idea how pretty you are whenever you appear to be deserted, with your streets empty and lit golden, fairer than Jerusalem, when I have you all to myself. I am here. I see you.
You like that better? I like that better. Let’s leave it at that.