An older woman sits in her room in the late morning, a cup of tea cooling beside her. Something undefined has been with her all morning — not pain exactly, not fear exactly, but a soft, unnamed weight. She has tried to pray about it. She has turned it over. And she still does not quite know what it is. But she knows this: she does not have to understand it for God to understand it. She says quietly, like a small act of faith: “I don’t always understand my feelings. But I’m grateful God does.” And something loosens.
