She arrived one Sunday morning. She was also there that evening. None knew where she came from or where she lived. Over the past months, few spoke to her. It seemed that most did not know what to talk to her about - she was ‘not one of us’.
Joyce made certain that she occupied the same chair, as she arrived long before the rest of us. Those sitting in ‘her wing’ knew the chair was ‘her place’. She never spoke or sang, but she did listen. After each service, she would drink a cup of tea, often standing to the side. Joyce was always given bread to take ‘home’, and sometimes, she was given a packet containing something to wear and eat. She would quitely leave as she came. Some Sunday mornings after church I would see her sitting on the grass feeding the doves with pieces of bread.
Then one morning she was not there. Even then, her chair was left untouched, for we had come to know it was hers. Upon discrete enquiry we were told that she was in hospital.
On Christmas Day she spent her first in Heaven.
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