“Joy!!!” my mom shouted, her voice cutting through the morning stillness. “I’m coming!” I called back, already fumbling with my shoes. We were, as usual, impossibly late for church. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed my chosen armor for the day: a long red dress, black heels, and my hair meticulously styled. Satisfied, I hurried downstairs, where Mom waited by the door, a strained look on her face. “Let’s go, we’re late,” she urged, and we rushed out, hoping to defy the clock once more.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the church parking lot, already twenty minutes behind schedule. The usual sparse collection of cars had been replaced by a bewildering array of expensive vehicles, none of which belonged to our familiar congregation. New visitors? Or something more? A quick, frantic search yielded a spot, and we hurried inside. The sight that greeted me was puzzling: “Why is the church divided?” I murmured, glancing at Mom, whose expression mirrored my own confusion. Our regulars occupied one side, while the other was filled with new faces, all clad in somber black, save for one striking woman in baby pink. Was it a funeral? Then, a wave of relief washed over me. My best friend, Alisa, had saved me a seat in the front row. Thank God for Alisa.