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always wear to show a cheerful countenance. Besides Dad, I’m the only one who really knows how much Mom resisted coming to church. Dad just explained to the rest of my brothers and sisters that God needed her to heal at home today, so they don’t seem worried. But I picture Mom all alone, crying in bed with no one to sit with her. I swallow hard and try to ignore the image. Am I the only one who’s thinking of Mom? The only one who’s really worried?
    At church, the service goes on as it normally does until Pastor Garrett asks Dad to come stand with him, at the same place James Fulton stood the week before. Pastor Garrett lays his hands on Dad’s head, just like Dad does to us when he blesses us before bedtime.
    The pastor’s voice booms from the front of the church. It’s a loud, sure voice that doesn’t seem to match the reed-thin body that carries it, but when Pastor Garrett preaches, he doesn’t even have to use a microphone. The first time he preached a Sunday sermon I was ten years old and jumped half an inch in my seat when he opened his mouth. Dad says Pastor Garrett was born knowing how to proclaim Christ.
    â€œProverbs reminds us to trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding!” he bellows. “And how we must lean now, Lord. How hard it is to understand the loss of a child, Father God. But by faith we receive the unending peace of your presence, Lord, knowing that while Joshua’s life on Earth was brief, he dwells forever in your light as you once promised Abraham. Let us pray for this father and for Joshua’s mother, your servant Elizabeth, who is still recovering at home and who by the power of your command can have strength restored to her body and joy to her spirit.”
    The pastor and Dad are a little huddle at the front of the church. Pastor Garrett’s hands press into Dad’s skull as he faces the congregation. Dad is stoic, firmly planted into the floor, nodding along with everything Pastor Garrett says.
    I hear Faith’s muffled crying from the row behind me. “Father God, give us your peace,” she whispers, loudly enough that I can hear it. I want to turn around to comfort her, but I’m not sure what to say. I shift in my seat, waiting for my tears to fall, but they don’t.
    All around me women are wiping away tears and pressing napkins dug out of their purses to the corners of their eyes. I should be crying, too, and I worry that people won’t think I’ve been moved by the pastor’s message. I am touched by his words, of course, but I just want to go home and check on Mom and make sure she’s all right.
    Lord, let my mother be all right , I pray, but I’m frustrated that I can’t come up with better words to reach out to God. Long, elaborate phrases full of just-right Scripture that sound like something Faith or Pastor Garrett might say. But since it’s all I have, I repeat my prayer in my mind over and over again, letting the words flow along with my breathing.
    Lord, let my mother be all right.
    Finally Pastor Garrett is finished, and Dad moves back down the aisle to a chorus of “Amens” and “Yes, Lords.” We sing “How Great Thou Art” to close the service. Clutching Sarah’s hand in mine, I exit the church, but in the gaggle of people, we get separated from my dad and the rest of my brothers and sisters. All the women who were crying before now smile brightly at Sarah and me. A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance , Proverbs tells us, and our hearts should be merry all the time because we’ve been saved and born again. But how I wish people wouldn’t smile right now. I know they’re all smiling because Joshua is with the Lord, but I wish my family could have a few minutes to feel sad about it, at least. Would that have been too selfish?
    As I gaze out over the crowd searching for Ruth and the other little ones,