things fall apart - The Easter Week Series

My bare feet follow the carpeted hallway to the kitchen. I woke up at 6am and I’m not sure why. My gray t-shirt is rumpled and soft; my hair smells like lavender and sleep. Gray light mingles with the smell of coffee, and it’s Monday morning. 

The Monday after Palm Sunday—the day that things fall apart. The day that the fig tree is cursed and the tables are flipped and the triumphal entry is over.

My coffee is lukewarm from being awake and in bed for half an hour. I set my red ceramic mug into the microwave and, clinking, it greets me with white, hand-painted words: good morning. I lean against the counter as my thoughts dissolve in the white noise of the microwave. 

For a while, I stare at nothing—just waking up, you know? I’m still in this contented hangover from the Sabbath. From Palm Sunday. From the full-day of passionate celebrating. 

Then slowly, Monday-things start lining up, reporting for duty—the never-ending hum of tasks and to-dos, the shards of stress, the random responsibilities, the unknown, the awareness that time is passing—always passing.

The microwave dings and I set the mug on the speckled counter. I pull out the cutting board and slowly, quietly—to not wake up my roommates—begin chopping sweet potatoes and cracking eggs. Typical Monday. One by one, things get thrown into the skillet: clumps of coconut oil, diced potato pieces, runny egg yolks. I place the lid over the top to trap the moisture and quiet the sizzling. 

And I lean against the counter again and read Scripture and poems from Between Midnight and Dawn.

It’s Monday and things are simmering. Something is about to go down but we don't know what exactly. The lid is still on—for now. 

So we lean against countertops in the gray light, feeling the aftershock of Palm Sunday and the weight of all there is left to be done. 

We remember the triumph of twenty-four hours ago when we sang for Zion and shouted Hosanna and danced our way to the Temple. We saw with our own eyes the donkey that Zechariah prophesied. We take a sip of coffee to ward off the hangover. 

We thought it'd feel different. We thought the entrance of the Messiah would make us feel better--less human, less broken, less guilty.

But we wake up on Monday morning and we’re still human.

On the Monday after Palm Sunday--before the cross--we were still guilty. And we have a sinking feeling that things are about to get worse before they get better.