My Crown of Thorns

Yesterday the weather was dead calm, so I decided to take a drive to the woods with Magnum.  Easter is two months away and I want to make a crown of thorns for an Easter vignette at church.  Two months might sound like plenty of time, but after I form the crown, it needs to dry out and then I’ll stain it a dark oak.

The air was motionless but cold and I walked briskly to keep warm.  Still, my ramble was leisurely and tranquil compared with Magnum’s.  Bounding past me up the path, then galloping back the other way and hurtling through the brush, he seemed to be on all four sides of me at once in his excitement to see and smell everything in the woods.  In his haste, he crashed hind end through the thin layer of ice covering a stream, but neither my laughter nor the cold water slowed him down.  He hauled his sodden self out of the stream and kept on running.

Magnum on a mission

I found a thorny bush and waded in to clip some branches.  Those thorns were like painful velcro – they clung to everything they touched, which happened to be my gloves, my pants, my hat and all the other branches.  Two barbs pierced my palm through the gloves.  I began to get irritable, but the feeling was tempered by the thought that those two pangs might represent the tiniest imaginable iota of pain Jesus Christ suffered that day he wore a crown of thorns – and all for love.

thorn bush

The next step might prove to be even trickier than cutting the branches.  According to Albert, I need to soak the thicker parts in hot water to get them to bend and not break.   Albert is a knowledgeable source of this information because he and his cousin once tried to build a canoe.  The ill-fated vessel never survived her maiden voyage, but this in no way undermines the principle of soaking wood to make it bend.

I can’t think of any place but the bathtub for this endeavor, and somewhere, I’ll have to find a pair  of gloves that are waterproof, yet thick enough to firmly grasp the long, prickly branches.

 Oh, and I’ll have to clear the bathroom shelves of soap and bottles.  I’m seeing a vision of Albert coming home to a bleeding, sudsy wife and the walls and ceiling hemorrhaging blood and herbal essences volumizing shampoo.  I know we’re called to suffer for the gospel, but somehow I doubt that that’s what God has in mind.

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