Taking a breath, she bows her head, hands folding and raising to her forehead. No, they're doing good here. They've touched so many lives that otherwise would have known no aid, no comfort. Continuing onward was all they had.

Find the words. Find the strength in them. A small breath was taken.

O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights.
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.
Make me to rest in the warmest places.

The words are murmured, soft, but they seem the only sound in the quiet of the chapel.