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I lose my footing and run smack into the person in front of me.
    â€œOh, I’m so sorry,” I manage, gripping Sarah’s hand to make sure she doesn’t trip.
    â€œIt’s all right,” says a woman’s voice. The figure turns, and it’s Mrs. Sullivan, standing there with her husband.
    Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan. The parents of Lauren Sullivan. The girl we’re not supposed to talk about.
    I quickly glance behind them, almost expecting to see Lauren’s dyed red hair and the firm, set expression she always wore to church. Lauren Sullivan never smiled unless she really wanted to. And toward the end of her days with us, she never seemed to want to.
    But of course Lauren isn’t with them. She’s moved back to town, but not to Calvary. It’s ridiculous to expect her to be here, absurd to even be looking.
    â€œRachel, that was a beautiful laying on of hands for your father and a wonderful way to give thanks for the homecoming of your baby brother’s soul,” Mr. Sullivan says.
    â€œThank you, yes, it was,” I answer.
    Mrs. Sullivan is older than Mom and looks it, her long, waist-length hair gone totally gray, the space between her light eyes etched with deep lines. “We have several babies we never got the chance to hold who are waiting for us in Heaven, too,” she adds, her smile fixed, and I remember that Lauren was an only child.
    â€œWell,” I say, searching my brain for the right response, “the Lord’s steadfast love always endures.” Like the rest of us, the Sullivans don’t mention Lauren. It’s as if she’s been erased.
    â€œYes, the Lord’s steadfast love always endures,” Mr. Sullivan repeats, his voice flat, the skin covering his long face turned into a thick leather from hours of working outside in the torturous Texas sun. The Sullivans make a motion to go, promising to pray for us.
    As I follow the flow of the crowd outside, I remember how we prayed for Lauren Sullivan years before. Pastor Garrett laid hands on her and proclaimed, “Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Be vigilant! Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour! Be vigilant!”
    Although I was eleven and knew better, I expected a lion to stalk up the aisle, baring bloodstained teeth. Some of the little children started crying at Pastor Garrett’s repetitive, forceful shouts of Scripture, but the moms didn’t make a move to leave like they sometimes did when babies started fussing. No, we all stayed and watched as Mr. Sullivan, Pastor Garrett, and some of the other men of the church, including my dad, circled Lauren as she sat in a folding chair at the front of the church, her hands folded in the middle of her lap, her eyes staring straight ahead. We all watched as Pastor Garrett and her father laid hands. We all watched as Lauren kept staring at us like she could see through us, unmoved.
    The devil already has her , I thought to myself. It’s too late.
    â€œRachel? Rachel, are you listening?” I feel an arm touch me. It’s Faith, standing with the other girls her age, Caleb drifting to sleep in her arms. “Are you all right? You look like you can’t catch your breath.”
    â€œI’m okay,” I answer. “It’s nothing.” Little Sarah spots Ruth and the twins and drops my hand, running off to join them.
    Faith nods, continuing eagerly. “The girls and I were just saying that Mrs. Garrett wants to help us with that modesty workshop we talked about last Sunday. Focusing on biblical femininity? We set the date for next Wednesday.”
    â€œOh, that’s good,” I say. “I’m looking forward to it.” It’s what Faith wants to hear.
    Faith smiles, the tears she cried during the service all gone now. Her trust in the Lord must be so strong. She glides easily from correct emotion to