The tradition goes way back. Our church, like many others, orders palm branches from those parts of the world where they grow wild. They are shipped, at some expense, thousands of miles to be waved by members of the congregation, and in our case laid at the feet of a real donkey.
One year they were so fresh there was a small frog who jumped off of a branch and down the aisle. A little boy was the lucky person who caught him. But it happened that this year conditions were less conducive to rain soaked leaves being boxed up and transported in a dark truck. The palms were moldy.
Someone on staff was creative and went shopping for ferns. Lots of them. Which it turns out make a very satisfying substitute. She saved the day.
Hosanna is the word we call out on Palm, or Fern Sunday. It means a spectrum of things, including "Save us!" It also conveys joyful celebration. Which was the motivation for naming our daughter Hosanna twenty nine years ago.
It was my pleasure to sit beside Benjamin, ferns in our swaying hands. He has not been to church in six months. Church, which was the highlight of his week for years, became too stressful for him. And he quietly stopped coming. We asked each Saturday, and he always preferred to stay home, where nothing was expected of him. We understood.
But this Sunday, he said he wanted to go, and put on his church pants and purple shirt. I sat near the door just in case, but he was fine. His head popped up when the minister talked about superheroes. This was something he cared about. Jesus came to a world that desperately needed saving, and the people were exuberant in their response to the man they believed would rescue them from oppression.
The minister mentioned that well worn button on every screen, that enables writers to hang on to their work. He talked about the enormous relief that washes over you when you are lost and your mother finds you.
It turns out that being saved can usher in more joy that having never been distraught. I thought of how grateful I was that my daughters were saved by a lock smith last week. More thankful, it turns out, than I was the evening before when they walked through the door after dance.
At the end of the service on Sunday the woman sitting behind me tapped my shoulder.
"Did you sell that quilt?"
"The one I made when the twins were locked out? No."
"Sold."
