A few departing mourners turned around in surprise, while the cemetery workers paused and looked toward the funeral director for clear instructions.

Martha crossed the damp lawn as quickly as her tired legs could carry her.

Her simple church dress was badly wrinkled from the long bus journey, and her left shoe was covered in red mud from the road outside her farm.

Her gray wool shawl hung crookedly across her shoulders, and the old photograph she had held tight the entire morning was damp from her sweaty palm.

“Stop lowering that box this instant!” she commanded again.