A Splintered Mind

 

(Billy Pasco/Unsplash)

I’ve never been glad to get a splinter before.

Not that it was the most pleasant experience this time, either. Yesterday I was taking the dogs out to the back yard to do their business when I stopped to kick off a piece of excrement that had been left in the middle of one of the wooden steps by a hound in a hurry sometime earlier. As I raised my leg to kick, I reached for the rail to steady myself and caught my hand on a rough spot in the wood, leaving me with a small cut and a splinter just under the skin.

It was no big deal; once back inside the house I poked around the wound a bit with a needle, dislodging the splinter in short order. And that was the end of it, or so I thought…until today when I reached to grab something and felt some soreness in the middle of my left palm. It was then that I remembered the episode from the day before and shrugged it off, knowing the miniscule cut would be healed up in no time. But today, repeatedly, I’ve been reminded, even ever so gently, of the little hole in my hand.

And I’ve smiled, grateful for the tiny reminder of what this week is all about.

You see, I blew past Palm Sunday yesterday. I was shocked when I opened my Lenten devotional this morning and saw a special Sunday entry that I’d missed the day before. On all the other Sundays in this season there had been no reading available, the author suggesting we use the day to rest and recharge as God intended. But yesterday was Palm Sunday, a big part of the Holy Week narrative, the day when Jesus rode into the city of Jerusalem on a donkey’s colt, and the crowds welcomed and worshiped Hm by spreading their clocks on the ground before Him and waving palm branches in greeting, before later calling for His crucifixion.

I suddenly remembered the years upon years of palm fronds being handed out as one entered the sanctuary before the service on the Sunday before Easter, first in my own childhood, and then as we eventually brought our own children to church, as well. At one church we attended, an Easter Egg Hunt always followed the Palm Sunday service, adding weight to an already heady day. Even after my kids grew up and the churches we attended grew out of the practice of passing out palm fronds, the significance of the day was at least mentioned in the message from the pulpit.

I was surprised to realize that yesterday it was not.

I don’t blame the speaker; our congregation is currently deep into the study of the book of Genesis, and his mind was full of the subject matter assigned to him by the pastor he was filling in for that day. Nor do I blame the worship leader, who surely believes that every Sunday we should worship as if Jesus was arriving in our midst, and welcome Him with our praise.

No, the blame for forgetting the day lies solely with me, and the fact that my mind was focused on other events on my calendar this week. I was remembering the multitude of appointments scheduled in the days ahead for both me and my dog. I was looking forward with anticipation to an exciting end to a PGA golf championship that afternoon, the leaderboard packed at the top with viable contenders; I wondered what I would knit while watching. I wanted to monitor my bracket for the ongoing March Madness basketball contest …all the while I was busy researching the viewing times on the streaming service that would show an important ice skating event. My mind was everywhere but on Easter. How sorely I needed the little sore on my palm to remind me of what is important this week!

Surely by Easter Sunday morning the little cut will be healed and forgotten, but it’s interesting that Jesus’ hand wounds were not… they remained after His resurrection, evidenced by His invitation to Thomas to examine them for himself. And I want that picture to remain with me… so that each time I reach up and receive gifts from His hands, those holes remind me that He healed all the ones in my heart, and to never let the sacrifice He made for me be forgotten, nor take the  grace He gives for granted ever again.

 

“A week later his disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them. Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among the and said, ‘Peace be with you!’ Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.’” (John 20:26-27 NIV)