Palm Sunday, March 16, 2008

Stanley Hudson stood in the entryway of his house, waving a palm branch at his daughter, Melissa. He and his family had just arrived home from Palm Sunday Mass with an armful of palms that Father Murphy had blessed. His wife Terri was busy hanging all but one of the palms above crosses and holy pictures throughout the house. Stanley held the final branch, which he intended for Melissa to hang in her bedroom.

The Hudson family had a tradition, begun on the second Palm Sunday after Terri joined their family, that the girls would hang their own palm branches in their rooms. Stanley would never forget the reason for that tradition -- the first Palm Sunday after he and Terri had married. Both girls had screamed at Terri -- Sara for hanging it ‘wrong,' or rather, not like her late mother had, and Melissa for going into her bedroom. This year, however, there had been a major step forward in Terri's relationship with one of her stepdaughters; Sara had headed back to college when Mass was over, but when saying her goodbyes, she had specifically asked Terri to hang a palm branch behind the crucifix in her room. Terri had agreed with a big, bright smile, in direct contrast with the scowl on Melissa's face.

The ride home had been an odd one for Stanley, with Terri radiating a giddy happiness from the passenger seat while Melissa put forth a major cold front from the back seat. Now that they had arrived home, Stanley wanted nothing more than to relax for a few minutes on the couch with his feet up, working on the Sunday Times crossword puzzle and enjoying the smell of the roast which had been cooking while they were gone. Instead, he was dealing with his younger daughter who was having a full-on hissy fit.

"You will put this palm in your room, Melissa," Stanley said, waving the branch again. "We're Catholic, and it's a sacramental. What part of ‘sacramental' do you not understand?"

"All of it. It's gross. Just because you and Terri want to stick palm branches behind half the pictures in the house doesn't mean I want one in my room. It gets all dried up and gross and disgusting, and then when my friends come over and see it, I just know that they're laughing at me. None of them have palm branches in their rooms."

Stanley couldn't understand why Melissa had to be so difficult. They'd hung palms faithfully year after year her entire life, talking about the symbolism. In addition, he knew that Melissa's private Catholic school (which cost him a small fortune each year) was thoroughly educating her on the events and traditions of Palm Sunday. Why was it a problem this year? Why was everything with her always such a problem? Sometimes Stanley felt like he lived with a younger, female Michael Scott -- he never knew what to expect from Melissa, but the surprising behavior rarely made life easier or more comfortable.

"Melissa, if you don't want your friends to come over and see palm branches, we'll just make sure they never come over, how's that?" said Stanley.

"Oh, whatever, then I'll just go to their houses! I'd rather do that anyway than sit around here!" Melissa whirled and started up the stairs to her room in a huff, throwing back over her shoulder, "You know, I never asked to be Catholic!"

Stanley could just see her as she reached her room, turning her pouting face toward him for one last volley. "When I grow up, I'm never going to Mass, and if anyone gives me palms, I'm going to burn them!" She disappeared through the door and Stanley heard it slam.

"Fine!" he yelled, loud enough that she would be able to hear him (he had a very small window of opportunity before her music would begin to blast), "Then we'll be all set for Ash Wednesday!"