We'll Be Waving Our Palm Branches When He Comes

I don't know how it's possible, but I swear his hands are still as soft as they were in the days when he would lay in my lap and catch my index finger in his tiny fist.  Even now, when he takes my hand, I sigh at how soft his little palms are against mine.

Last night after his bath, while I was trying to finish the last few pages of a book, he climbed in my lap, nudged the book away, and put his impossibly soft hands on my face.  "Mama-mama, I want ca-ay."

For the longest time he called me Maw, but now it's Mama-mama, as if the moment he learned to say the full version, he liked it so much he had to do it twice.

He knows I cannot help but kiss him when he climbs in my lap, but he will gladly pay in kisses for the chance to beg for cake.  I stole my kiss and made him try to pronounce his request correctly, emphasizing the end of the word, "I want cake.  Kuh, kuh.  Cake."

"Cay," he repeated.  I made him try again.  "Cay-kuh," he said at last, drawing the word into two syllables.

"Good," I said, "Now put it all together.  I want cake."

"I want cay."  He pointed toward the kitchen, nodding happily.

Sighing, I agreed.  "Okay, little man, you can have some cake."

He cried, "Yaaaaay!" and slid off my lap, shouting the news to his brother, "Neeto, ca-ay! Come on, ca-ay! Yeah, ca-ay!"

~

At our church, Palm Sunday means the preschool children will be dressed in their almost-Easter finest and led into the sanctuary waving palm branches.  They will be arranged on the steps of the stage, and they will mostly not sing the songs they have been preparing for months.  They will squirm and become fascinated with their palm branches and wave to their parents out in the audience.  About half of them will deign to perform the hand motions, and a few will loudly belt the songs while the rest sit down or start to cry or try to wander up on stage to join the praise team.

Five years ago, at our first Palm Sunday, we were surprised by the sudden, small-town-church style interruption of the normally glossy services.  The kids just seemed to arrive onstage, and we spent the first few minutes scanning their faces to see if Nico's class had been included in the show.  When we confirmed that our oldest was not in the group, I commenced the ritual I have kept up during the Palm Sunday performance every year since then:  I smiled so hard I started crying. 

I know, it doesn't make sense.  But that first year, Lincoln was only about six months old, and I still kept him with me during the service because I wasn't ready to share him with the nursery just yet.  In those days, we were still reeling a bit from the Down syndrome diagnosis, and we just didn't know what Lincoln would be able to do or when he would get around to it.

It was such a bizarre feeling, especially in those early days, to be excited about watching our oldest son accomplish something while simultaneously wondering when, if ever, our youngest son would reach that milestone.  On that first Palm Sunday, as I held baby Lincoln in my arms, I felt both the anticipation of watching Nico on that stage the next year and the aching worry of whether Lincoln would ever be able to join the chorus himself.

~

This year, I was crying before the doors even opened to reveal their sweet little faces.  I could hear the impatient shuffling outside the sanctuary door, the army of teachers handing out palm branches and loud-whispering to those who tried to break ranks and let the line dissolve.  I could hear the high-pitched voices murmuring in excitement.  And this year, I knew, Lincoln was in that line, a palm frond in his sweet, impossibly soft hands, his own husky voice pitched in with that of his classmates.

And when he tried to join the praise team up on stage, Sam and I just laughed and remembered that was exactly what his older brother had done.  And when he refused to sing, we noticed that so did half the kids around him.  And yes, he refused to do the hand motions, but he waved his palm branch and smiled and stood in line and said Mama-mama at me while I crouched on the front row, getting it all down on video.

~

Yesterday evening, after having chocolate cake residue scrubbed off his hands, Lincoln curled up beside me on the couch to watch the video of his morning performance.  This time, he did the hand motions, standing up on the couch to do the part about riding in on a donkey.  When the video finished, he asked for more, one of the few words he still signs as he speaks.

"You want more? Yes, I do, too."  And we watched it again and again, his little hands working the motions, grabbing for the phone to watch the video closer, pointing to himself on the screen. 

These days, the tension is still there, the questions of how much he can do and when.  The fear of whether he will be excluded.  The worry that people will give me one of those looks and bolt out of the conversation when they ask his age and my answer is clearly not what they expected.

But I remembered something yesterday morning as he stood on stage, waving his palm branch and smiling and not singing the songs about Jesus.  I remembered that the reason we have celebrated Palm Sunday with fanfare year after year for two thousand years now is because today, as then, we are so weary from the yoke of this world's unfairness and pain and fear.  In awe, I watched my son waving in the arrival of the One who has come to rip apart the inequality, the cruelty, the injustice that has long plagued this world.  I watched this boy, who many would call the least of these, raise his hands in joyful expectation.

And don't you know, my hands were raised right along with him.