She was walking so fast down the side-aisle in a pair of flipflops. She had a thumb-painted oil cross on her forehead, and thin trails of tears on her cheeks. Her face, unlike the usual peaceful spirit-taken weepers, was painful to see, painful to feel forming on your own face. It was a stretched latex mask, so normal and yet alive with the agony of one in torment. It was a worn face, and it fitted, although you could never have seen it before. Before, she'd saved it for the cell of inside her private room, and she had worn it alone for a miserable gown.
But God had seen it. And He saw her, running down the side aisle by the gallery of the familiar congregation, and He had known all along it would come to her in front of all these people. He watched her hurry into the bathrooms, lonely, and comforted, and anoited with a healing hope.