My eighty-something year old neighbor opens her Etienne Aigner purse and puts some church announcement sheets in there, making a little noise as she does so. She wears a scarf around her neck and has her cane propped against her chair. She is steady and strong.
The woman sitting to my left holds her grandson on her lap, assuring me that she has let him skip going to nursery because he is in strong need of a nap. Sure enough, within two minutes he is out cold, his little sweaty blond head bobbing around as he tries to settle in to those comfy arms.
To the far side of the room is an older woman who is gentle and kind. After we lost our little Olive in March this friend told me that she lost three babies at the same point in her pregnancies. Her eyes were shiny that day as she connected with me in this experience. I respect her. And an added bonus, she has never once colored her hair, which is still a beautiful auburn.
At the podium up front stands my friend who sometimes gets self-conscious when she is in front of people. She mumbles a little as she starts, and then she talks to us about the lost being found. About individual struggles. About being committed to gospel things.
And I sit here and realize that I/we are doing the best we can. Some are still rocking babies. Some are mourning. Some are tired out tending to family members who are demanding.
Some are lost.
And some are found.