The crowds lined the cobblestone streets that day
as a solitary figure emerged on a beast of burden.
There were exuberant cheers!
Smiling spectators waved palm branches in his direction
and shouted “Hosanna!”

Children sang a simple synagogue song.
“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”
Parents paved the path in front of where they stood
carpeting it with their outer garments
as the grand parade marshal approached.
What a day it must have been!

Within my mind’s eye
I see Jesus seated on that burro.
He is smiling.
I catch his glance.
His looks my way and his loving eyes speak.
They seem to say…

“You matter to me!
This parade appears to be for me,
but it actually is for you.
This procession punctuated by praise
will culminate in a post-parade party at which time
my critics will call for my death.
The painful conclusion to this joyful scene
will make possible the meaningful life I pictured for you
even before you were born.”

His eloquent eyes speak volumes.
But if that were not enough,
I see his arm reach through the crowd in my direction.
His calloused hand betrays his years as a carpenter.
He opens his palm and gently touches my suntanned cheek.
It is at once warm and cool.
A tear falls from my eye and trickles to his hand.
His hand remains unmoved.

He smiles.
I smile back bashfully.
My trembling hand reaches up to touch his hand.
My palm against his palm.
I feel my heartbeat pulsating in my hand.
It is a holy moment.

Two hands touching.
A sacred bond of sorts.
With no words being shared
I am convinced that I am loved by Jesus.