I want her to look at me. I will it to happen, but she doesn’t. Her attention on the announcements given from the pulpit. Two chairs separate us, but I easily could reach out to grab her arm. That would get her attention.

I don’t, of course. Because that’s not what polite people do. Especially in the middle of a church service. That’s what you get for being late. You don’t get the chatty hellos and hugs if you arrive 15 minutes after the music starts.

Announcements done, no new visitors, we stand to start signing again. I know this hymn well, we’ve sung it many times before.

A mother on the other side of the congregation bends down to whisper to one of her sons, tucking her long, brown hair behind her ear so it doesn’t spill into her face. My Edmund with an impish grin. He’s laying on his belly, taking up more than his share of space in the row. His blue sneakers wave too close to an elderly woman’s hand resting on the chair back. Doc doesn’t notice.

Two rows ahead, another woman raises her hands as she sings. Her husband stands next to her with his hands shoved in his pockets. A guitar player in the band – I taught him in Sunday School when he was in second grade.

Last year, my Peter was in second grade.

The singing done, children run downstairs for Children’s Church. We reach for pen, paper and Bible. The woman two chairs away – I can’t remember her name – finally, I catch her eye. Small smile.

This is the first Sunday I’ve been in church in four weeks. I wonder if she even knew I was gone.

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