Today is the day when kids can shout in church. At least they could when Jesus road into Jerusalem on a donkey. 

The story says that if the people stayed quiet the very stones would shout. 

Sometimes I cannot keep from shouting. It may be from joy, or fear, or surprise. Nine years ago when I arrived in Paris to join my five oldest children I saw my firstborn across the terminal.

"LUKAS!!"

It may have embarrassed him but my relief at seeing him as I landed in a country where I had no phone, no ability to speak the language and no sense of directions was enormous. I screamed.

When Benjamin first wrote a movie title with cookies at age four I could not contain my jubilation. Our mute little boy lined them up neatly, like he had seen on the movie case. 

"MIRACLE ON 34th STREET."

I whooped and threw cookies in the air. He seemed startled by the outburst. 

When our dear friends announced their engagement I screamed. Our love for them grew exponentially with their joy, and it came out as a noise. Some feelings are too big for polite company. 

I suppose I could learn to hem in my excitement, but then again maybe the rocks would get noisy. Perhaps they are like eggs, and need to be broken open.