When I was a kid in the Bronx, my parents being "good" Catholics, would send me to church, but they wouldn't go. I saw no reason to go, so I'd go to a friends house and spend the hour there after stopping at the candy store to spend my donation money. When I went to leave on a Palm Sunday, I saw the people walking home carrying their palms.
I was caught. I ran to the church, and in the vestibule stood the deacons with boxes of palms. I started to cry real tears, and told them my sad story of how I didn't get any palms. They looked at each other and smiled at my lie. They then, opened a fresh box of palms, and loaded me down with arms full of palms. I ran home with my palms in hand. Lots of palms.
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Comments: 11
mooch
Touching story!