About eight or nine years ago, I lived in Spain, and I will never forget my first, and only, Palm Sunday there. As I made my way to church that morning, I came across a man and his daughter selling palm branches in the street. They were Roma, or what we would call Gypsies. I wrote about my brief encounter with them, which was a stunning look at contrasts, in the following words.

Palm Sunday

Little girl—long brown ponytail hanging loosely down her back. Selling palm and olive branches wrapped in crumpled pieces of newspaper with her father. A man of average height with a white beard matted across his cheeks and peppered with flecks of dirt. Both with the same almond-colored skin.

“Soy pobre y mi familia . . . 1 euro,” is all I understand, but she points to the box covered in branches.  Her father approaches – “Te regalamos uno. Dale lo que quieres.”  As I reach into my purse, she comes closer, as if she’s going to stick her nose right inside. Big brown eyes meet mine as I fumble with zippers and pockets. I pull out 60 centimos and am filled with shame as I place the coins in her grubby palm and receive my branch. There are more coins I could offer, but I’ve kept them hidden from sight and quieted their jingling. I smile at them both and make my way to the bus, watching the child’s smileless face and her outstretched arm depositing the money in the pouch tied around her father’s thin waist. Her father smiles for them both and tucks long, escaped brown hairs behind her ears.

And she sets to work again – with her pleading eyes and empty expression. A poor little girl surrounded by the rich smells of her olive and palm branches.