In faith formation class, the kids had reconciliation (where they were allowed to light and blow out candles, which they loved; they also got lollipops, and were described as a "lively group." Ya think?). Afterwards, we looked at the art print The Virgin (Joseph Stella, 1926). We also studied The Good Shepherd Among His Flock (unknown) and Jesus Mosaic (unknown) in preparation for a big project we have planned: they are going to make mosaics! We finished by praying the rosary and having a healthy snack (for Lent)...apple slices. They came with caramel dipping sauce, so they were not completely health food, but the kids certainly thought they were.

Today is the one year anniversary of Millie's death. Hard to believe, the year has flown by -- but in some ways it seems longer ago than that. Life, and memory, are funny that way.

And now for something completely different...here's a story that falls under the category "truth is stranger than fiction." Take your pick: suicide, double murder, body stuffed in barrel for three years, arson, giant pumpkins -- it's all there. (Yes, it's macabre, yes, it's rubbernecking, and yes, I should be ashamed of myself.*)

*For some reason, this reminds me of that wonderful, hilarious book, The Innocents Abroad.  Mark Twain took great pleasure in displaying the ignorant behavior that his tour guides were expecting when he would ask incredulously at the site of ancient ruins or a tomb "but, but...is he dead?" Imagine my delight when I came across this while hunting a quote: 

 “The guide showed us a coffee-colored piece of sculpture which he said was considered to have come from the hand of Phidias, since it was not possible that any other artist, of any epoch, could have copied nature with such faultless accuracy. The figure was that of a man without a skin; with every vein, artery, muscle, every fibre and tendon and tissue of the human frame, represented in detail. It looked natural, because somehow it looked as if it were in pain. A skinned man would be likely to look that way, unless his attention were occupied with some other matter. It was a hideous thing, and yet there was a fascination about it some where. I am sorry I saw it, because I shall always see it, now. I shall dream of it, sometimes. I shall dream that it is resting its corded arms on the bed's head and looking down on me with its dead eyes; I shall dream that it is stretched between the sheets with me and touching me with its exposed muscles and its stringy cold legs.”