Sacred heart

I skipped church on Palm Sunday.

To go to the beach.

I think it's the first time I've ever missed a Palm Sunday service.

Even last year, I was in Haiti, and was delightfully surprised to find that we marched with palms.

That unlike Santa Claus, Jesus does make it to the third world in one piece.

And despite language barriers, he marches into Jerusalem, and we throw palms at his feet.

But today. I'm in a car. We're lulling through traffic, and I hear people, raising their hands to the heavens and pressing their lungs with their praises to God.

And I had thought to myself,

I'm leaving on Tuesday, and I've been working so hard... I need a break.

I deserve this.

I deserve a break from church?

As we drive, I don't feel good. I feel empty and decomposed. Selfish even.

Not necessarily because I missed the literal process of sitting in a church service,

But mostly because, on this morning.

So many years ago.

Jesus woke up,

And processed into a city.

Knowing all the while he was going to die

For me.

And I woke up,

Thinking I deserved a day at the beach.