My palm Sunday as a kid

Another story of growing up Catholic in the Bronx.  My parents were terrible Catholics but would send me every Sunday to Church with my quarter in my envelope.  I would go to Danny's Candy Store and buy my little bag of candy, and go to an atheist's house to hide out for the hour and chow down on my candy.

One palm Sunday, I looked out and saw all the "Good Catholics" coming home with palms.  I knew I was caught.  Cornered and desperate, I ran to the church.  The men were cleaning up in the vestibule, and I turned on real tears.  (The tears were only real in the sense of the terror of going home without my palms.)  I told the men I didn't get any palms.  They smiled knowingly, and dumped and entire box of palms in my little arms.

I ran home breathless and proud.  Another lie successfully executed and on Palm Sunday.  I know God has forgiven me, and now if I can.