This is the second of three short scenes from stories that aren’t fully written. Some of these scenes are part of a larger work that remains unfinished and some of them are from tales that haven’t come to me…yet.

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“Lydia Agnes,” the shepherd called.

I snapped by head up, fully at attention, though I had been drifting off to sleep. The training had been grueling that morning, and now the worship service was a welcome place of quiet and reflection. It was so quiet that I had forgotten to reflect, and instead found my head bowing in a nap, rather than prayer. I wasn’t entirely sure why the shepherd, Mary Josephine, had stopped in the middle of her homily to address me. But then I noticed that she and I were the only people left in the chapel.

Embarrassed, I stood and made a respectful genuflection to Mary Josephine. “I apologize, shepherd. The course this morning must have tired me more than I imagined it would.”

Mary Josephine nodded, an amused smile on her lips. There were still some candles burning behind her on the altar. No one ever blew them out; the prayer they represented would continue to flick to heaven until the candle burned out by itself. I looked for the one I had lit just that morning. The taper was roughly half melted away. I wondered if I would receive an answer, a sign from heaven, or a good word before the wick burned down to nothing.

“The training for Lydias is more rigorous than the others,” she agreed. “A lot of math.” She laughed, she ancient face wrinkling even more as she did. I’ve never seen anyone with crow’s feet quite as pronounced. “Never had a head for math, myself.”

She was in a good mood, and was being good natured about my lack of attention during the celebration and sharing of the word. I managed a weak laugh of my own. “Yes, sometimes I think perhaps I should have become a Martha instead.” My eyes went to the candle, burning away with my prayer.

“A Martha?” the shepherd said. She walked a few paces towards me, stopping at the wooden pew right in front of the one where I sat. This chapel was tiny. Just 8 pews, 4 on each side. I had seen it full a few times, but that was only when all the women were together. We had another shepherd in this house, who kept different hours, and several women who did not like to attend chapel at night. Perhaps they were too afraid that they would be caught napping.

“Yes,” I said, drawing my eyes back towards Mary Josephine. She was a good shepherd, and I had no doubt in my mind that she had always known that she would be a Mary. “I think I could have been happy in a life of service,” I said.

“We are all in a life of service, Lydia Agnes,” she said.

It was not quite a scolding. “Yes, I know, shepherd. That’s not what I meant.”

“You meant that you enjoy cooking for others, and making them feel welcome with gifts and treats and the small treasures that you can offer from your own hands.”

I pondered the explanation of what a Martha did for the community. I ticked through the list of what my own mother had done as a Martha. Homemade bread, cakes, handmade gifts, taking away dishes, giving me a treat, words of encouragement, letters in the mail, small notes left for me in surprising places, a tidy space, a long, lingering hug. “Yes,” I agreed. “I think I would have been a good Martha.”

“Do you think you’ll be a good Lydia?” Mary Josephine asked.

Lydias were good with money. They were all business. They liked solved problems. They were the backbone of the organization. The fundraisers. The advocates. The string pullers. The connection-makers. “Oh, yes, I think I’ll make a wonderful Lydia,” I said. But my eyes went back to the candle I had lit that morning as soon as the confident words had left my lips.

Mary Josephine took another step forward. “I think, Lydia Agnes, that almost all of us question from time to time if we have chosen the right path.” She smiled again, but this time it was tight. “I, for instance, have always had a nagging doubt that instead of a Mary, I should have been an Anna.”

“An Anna!” I exclaimed. Annas were few. It was said that the role of Anna chose you, rather than the other way around. I fidgeted with my Lydia ring. “To be an Anna is a great responsibility.”

“Yes, I know,” Mary Josephine said. “Which is why I chose the role of Mary.” She looked pensive, almost disappointed. “But…” she shrugged. “I’m old now, Lydia Agnes. I don’t think I will be changing my role among the sisters.”

“Nor should you,” I said, not thinking about how it might sound disrespectful. “You are a wonderful Mary. I love listening to you proclaim that word.”

Mary Josephine smiled again. “I thank you for that, little sister.” She placed her hand lovingly on my shoulder. “Off to bed for both of us, I think, now.” She moved away from me, towards the chapel exit.

I twisted the Lydia ring on my finger again, watching my prayer burn.