It’s Palm Sunday and the lockdown-life carries on here. Laundry is hung, kids are inside, streets are empty. Things move along at the same pace, now with a bit more of a cloud, knowing that we have another three weeks of lockdown or, as we say in Spanish, “confinement.”

But, today is Palm Sunday and I haven’t forgotten. Nor, it seems, has this city, where the roots of Holy Week tradition run deep. From the balconies and windows on our street, a few people beat and blow on the drums and trumpets typically played for Holy Week processions. I heard them as I sang and prayed and read scripture in my own living room. Let the King receive honor, regardless of where it comes from.

I went to listen and leaned dangerously far out of my window to get a glimpse of our drumming and trumpeting neighbors (and to catch sight of the sky if I could). As I hung out the window, I could hear the song of the birds as clearly as I heard the trumpets — them flying and chirping their own constant praise to their Creator, as easy as their breath. No doubt nature thanks Him more incessantly than I do.

The rocks are praising as well. If only I could hear all those stones and what they say, what they sing! There is so much beyond my scope of understanding, beyond my eye’s ability to see and my ear’s ability to hear.

Even with the cloud that has settled over the earth during these weeks, I rejoice with a constant hum of hope in my heart because the King came here. God did not wait for us to earn our way to Him, he came to earth and there he sat on a donkey. Hosanna, here is our saving, here is our shepherd.