Thursday Th(ink)s - March 26, 2026

Palm Sunday is a wink from heaven—a reminder that joy and heartbreak often ride

tandem on the same donkey.

Picture the scene: crowds cheering, cloaks laid down, palm branches waving like confetti

at a royal parade. “Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest!” they shout, voices bouncing off the stones

of Jerusalem like jazz riffs in a cathedral.

And Jesus? Calm. Steady. Knowing. He rode in, aware that the soundtrack would soon

shift from celebration to chaos, from cheers to jeers. “Hosanna! Crucify him!”

It’s the divine paradox: joy and sorrow, triumph and suffering, tightly woven into a single

tapestry of redemption.

I think about this as I stand at the kitchen sink and sip my morning coffee, still half

asleep, yet aware of the light spilling across the room. I hear Hubs tuning a guitar that he tuned

yesterday; I hear the dishwasher quietly hum; I hear my thoughts as they acknowledge the new

ache that showed up in my back after I swept the floor.

Palm Sunday assures us that even when the world feels chaotic, even when our own lives

veer into unexpected grief, God is cracking open the finite and he is pouring in infinite hope. The

darkness is never the final act. There is a daybreak coming. The Son has risen, even when we

don’t see it yet.

I wonder…were there old souls, old grandparents, old rabbis who stood on the edges of

the crowd pondering, Did we get this right?

Did they sense that, Something is off here but I can’t quite name it?

Did they sense the fickleness of the rejoicers and have a premonition about what was to

come the following Thursday, Friday, and Sunday? The Last Supper, the Crucifixion, the

Resurrection.

Did they watch their grandchildren, waving palm branches like they were flagging down

the popsicle truck, and know that confusion was about to arrive into their little lives?

Did the old ones hear the “Hosanna!” and understand—because they had lived long

enough—that every triumph carries a shadow? That no single day of joy lasts forever? That

silence always follows the shout.

Did they glance at the crowd and already see the empty streets, the fading echoes, the

palm branches trampled and left behind, like a forgotten wedding processional?

Did they think, This is good—but it will cost something?

Did they sense that “Hosanna” would turn to “Crucify Him”?

Did they lean in and embrace the moment, or step back with the erudite caution of

age—cynicism, sorrow, or even a strange kind of joy that knows death is never the end of the

story?

Did they understand what his death would mean?

Perhaps not fully. Perhaps it was a mixture, as it so often is.

And I wonder—what would I have done? If I understood the story, I would have known:

this parade was not the end, but the beginning.

Just like death is.

We have the gift of hindsight; they had the gift of the prophets.

Did the old people know that the world was about to fracture? That the temple would be

destroyed? That there would be a fissure in the veil? That God’s son would speak the words, “It

is finished”?

I think about this as I count the age spots on my hands. So many. It’s like they left a pin

on the map of time, telling me that I’ve visited many years. But I didn’t stay there.

I feel the solitude of standing on the outskirts, wondering about the future, and wondering

if I got the past right.

Did I miss any signs? Should I still dance with the crowd or am I contented that I have

already turned my face to the Son, knowing that the end is coming?

Aging gives a deep conviction that we now possess the wisdom of the ages, of the aged.

We now stand on the edges, silent, contemplative, watching, knowing that history has

made its way, loud and anticipatory down the Via Dolorosa, the way of suffering.

We’ve spent a lifetime living both joy and sorrow, but now, now we watch and wonder if

the end is near.

We know it is.

And so we wait.

This morning, the sun slid over the ridge like it always does—no applause, no

announcement. Just light showing up again.

And I stand here, coffee in hand, thinking:

Well then… I’ll ride another day.

Big Brains:

“Our Lord has written the promise of resurrection, not in books alone but in every leaf of springtime.” – Martin Luther

Old Souls:

“Now to the gate of my Jerusalem, The seething holy city of my heart, The saviour comes." – Malcolm Quite (Sounding the Seasons)

The Ancient of Days: “The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting, ‘Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!'” – Matthew 21:9

Norma Jean:
Even when life flips from hallelujah to heartbreak, 
the sunrise still comes.

Thursday Chat We are entering Holy Week. Is it possible to experience sorrow, joy, and gratitude all at once? If any week can gift us all that, it is this week. Dive in. Feel feels. Speak the words. Fill your heart.