Zechariah’s words echo through time, a whisper, a shout, calling us to “see” our King. Not on a stallion, not in grandeur, but on a donkey. Lowly. Unexpected. Gentle. This is how Christ comes: not always in the ways we’d expect, but always in the ways we most need.

Holy Week reminds us: God often enters our hardest moments on the back of a humble donkey, not to sweep away the suffering, but to ride straight into it with us. If we’re only watching for a crown or a chariot, we might miss Him entirely.

And the way not to miss Him? 

Keep looking for Him in the least likely places. 

In the slow hospital hallway. 

In the quiet kitchen light at midnight. 

In the tears that finally fall. 

In the silence that lingers longer than you’d like. 

In the donkey moments of life.

What do we hold on to in those moments? This simple truth: Christ comes. And he comes in unexpected ways. And in those donkey moments, we have a choice: Will we raise a palm branch in praise, or reach for a hammer in protest?

Because when life gets hard, and it will, we all reach for a shield. Holy Week sings this to us: “Palms raised in praise are our shield against the hard.” Praise isn’t ignoring the pain. It’s choosing to see Jesus in it.

Holy Week begins with open hands, not clenched fists. Palms raised. Hearts open. Eyes watching. And when we raise our palms in praise, we rise too. We become vessels, open to hold more of God.

So this week, whatever comes, raise your palm. Even when your King comes riding not in power, but in humility. Even when life looks more like a donkey than a throne. Meet every donkey moment with an honest Hosanna. You’ll see Jesus there, and you’ll be held.

Dear Heavenly Father,

Open my eyes to see You, not just in the mountaintop moments, but in the quiet, overlooked places too. When life feels heavy and hope feels far, remind me that You come riding into my mess, not to judge it, but to walk through it with me. Help me choose palms raised in praise instead of fists clenched in protest. Teach me to trust that Your way is better, even when it doesn’t look like I thought it would. Make my heart soft, my hands open, and my soul ready to say, “Hosanna,” even in the unexpected. In the Name of Jesus, I pray. Amen.

Instead of waiting for big, flashy breakthroughs, pay attention to the gentle, lowly ways Christ may be drawing near to you in that unanswered email, in the toddler’s cry, in the doctor’s delay, or the quiet ache of loneliness.

Every time you’re tempted to clench your fists in frustration or fear, pause and lift a quiet "Hosanna." Let praise be your protest against despair.