My parents moved across town just in time for me to go to high school. I don’t know for sure if they did it so I would go to what they perceived as a better school, but at the time, I thought that’s why we moved. Self-focused, I know now, but it seemed real.

The move also meant I lost the apricot tree in our back yard. Actually, we lost the back yard entirely. Our new place was the front side of a duplex; behind us, instead of a yard, there was a four-unit apartment and behind that, a garage structure with parking for the cars of any of the residents who wished to pay extra for covered parking. We chose to save money and park on the street. The garage was too small for our pre-economy-car sedan anyway. I used to joke that it was made for the Model Ts or As from the days when cars first hit the market.

When we looked out the kitchen window onto the street in front of the house, we saw the slender trunk of the palm tree. This new home was not only within walking distance of my high school, but also just three blocks from the ocean. Growing up, we always had to drive to the beach. Now, with this move, I could walk there. The palm tree reminded me every time I looked at it that we were just a few yards from the ocean.

From our window, that tree didn’t look much different from the telephone pole that stood a few feet north of it, both within view. Two different columns, that’s it.

I didn’t pay attention to the palm tree, except on Palm Sunday. Then, I would always look up at the palm branches. The tree was two or three times the height of our one-story duplex. The crown of the tree was the top where the branches and the fruit were. The city we lived in would send a utility truck with a cherry-picker around once every year to cut away the branches that had died and dried out at the base of the crown. I suppose this was their equivalent of our snow removal fleet—their palm-tree trimming crew. They ground up the branches, and drove them away, so I never got to hold one or wave one. But they were big, and I imagined them to be somewhat heavy.

Over time, I’ve become aware that there are different types of palm trees—from the ones that take a crew to cut down to the gentle palms of green the children wave when they process through the aisles singing hosannas year after year. In Kindergarten we make them out of green craft paper. The cloaks and palm branches signaling the good and happy news that the King has finally arrived.

What kind of branches did they wave on that most significant parade in all of history? One man, sitting on a donkey, coats on the ground, palm branches waving. This parade of One is marked all over the world. Not everyone has access to palm branches, and make other botanical choices: olives, willows, yews, even boxwood stand in for the palm branches in places where they are not available.

Wherever in the world there are churches, the people of the churches are waving something to reenact in one fashion or another Jesus’ royal ride into Jerusalem.

In contrast, the Daily Mail reports that “The Gold State Coach will not be used by the King and Queen to travel to Westminster Abbey for their coronation on May 6.

“In a break from tradition, the royal couple will instead travel to the ceremony in another vehicle. They could choose to use the Irish State Coach, which is often used to travel to the state opening of Parliament or might opt for a more comfortable car.”

No coats on the street. No palm branches. I do not think that a donkey is going to be one of the transportation options for Charles and Camilla. The article goes on to say that they will likely use the Gold State Coach to get to Buckingham Palace after the coronation. So, it won’t be a complete break from tradition, and people will be able to see the new king riding in the golden coach.

The king many wanted was not Jesus, but someone more like Charles. Signs of wealth and power are what we come to expect with royalty. Though many will watch this coronation, after a few years it will be mostly forgotten. There will be other coronations to take its place.

But Jesus was not like that. We do not forget his journey. One man riding into the town on a donkey knowing that in just a few decades, the city he was riding into was going to be destroyed, knowing that his own cross was just days away, understanding that his friends would abandon and deny him. Then the beating, the nails pounded in.

You know the rest. Death—the thing that ends a monarch’s reign, except for this one. This king is a king of love, the only king of his kind in all eternity.

Let’s sing Hosanna. Death is not the end of his reign but the beginning. His reign will take us where there is no death. Sweet suffering, loving Jesus, we don't deserve you, but you come anyway. You bring us a better way. Your donkey is better than any golden coach.

Wave the palms, whatever kind you want. Willows. Yew. Olive branches. Green construction paper. Throw your garments down onto the road. Our king has come, riding on a donkey . . .

“Say to the daughter of Zion,
‘Behold, your king is coming to you,
humble, and mounted on a donkey,
on a colt, the foal of a beast of burden.’”

From the stable to the cross, this saving king comes in humility, reaching the forgotten, associating with sinners, identifying with the poor, the lost, the animals. King Jesus calls us to follow him in this suffering world and beyond, to his kingdom where palm branches still wave and cloaks are all white.

After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, “Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!” (Revelation 7:9-10)