Church buildings may be closed, but worship in not on lockdown. What if we turned this global fright into personal delight with Jesus?

My oldest kid thinks I’m ancient. She asked me today if bikes were invented when I was a child, and if my older brothers and I all clumped together in one room for school, just like Anne of Green Gables. Next thing I know, she’s gonna ask me if I met Adam and Eve.

I must have been eleven when my father left on his desk a booklet called, Five Minutes With Jesus. Before walking to school with my brothers, I’d read the allocated page for the day, then prayed as was suggested.

And there it lay on the Frankfurt airport floor.

“It’s so beautiful!” Shouted my daughter looking at the wall of our living room.

Baptists keep traditions well. I grew up as one. So, every Thanksgiving for the last few years we kept these three: have turkey, celebrate my father’s birthday, and regret my husband didn’t have a flu shot.

Thanksgiving day, our home was two-cookies-and-a-glass-of-milk away from Christmas: nativity scenes dusted; fake fir tree tucked in its corner; yuletides playing; and pretend fireplace youtube-ing.

A sparkling conversation arose one morning due to a white-wool cardigan. Perfect in shape, size and cleanliness, yet undesired on this fall morning by this little girl.

When the crowds shouted their hosanna’s lifting Jesus up to the title of king, or emperor, Jesus finds a young donkey and sits on it to fulfil what was engraved in the prophesy of Zechariah 9:9 “… See, your king comes to you, righteous and victorious, lowly and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”