When I was a little girl growing up in the Roman Catholic Church, I loved Palm Sunday.  Maybe it was because the sun was melting the dingy grey snow piles in Western New York, and we knew the next week we could wear our new Easter dresses, and possibly our new white patent leather shoes if we could get mom to believe our promises that we wouldn’t stomp in the snow piles with them. Or maybe it was because it was all part of the season changing, showing decorations of bunnies and chicks and Easter eggs and, of course chocolate, candy and jelly beans.