On Palm Sunday the altar servers ushered me out to the plaza of St. Mary Magdalene chapel, where I was to begin the Procession. Three hundred eager souls followed, hoping to receive their very own palm for the year. We halted before the mahogany table set up for the occasion. “Christopher,” I whispered nervously, “where are the palms?” The table was bare. A stricken look came over the lead acolyte, but then, looking up, he brightened. “They are all around us, Father,” he smiled. It was true: we were surrounded by gracefully arching palms. I love living in California!
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