There was a time when every church had at least three old ladies whose purses were less handbags and more portable command centers. You could have survived a long weekend in the woods with whatever they were hauling around. Those purses were bottomless. They were mysterious. They were slightly dangerous. And they were always sitting right beside them on the pew like a trusted sidekick.

I remember watching them dig around in there during the sermon, their faces calm and unbothered, like they were reaching into a small universe only they understood. They never looked down. They just fished around until the exact thing they needed appeared between their fingers. It was like watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat, except the rabbit was usually a butterscotch candy. Sometimes still in it’s wrapper, and sometimes not.

There was always candy. Hard candy wrapped in cellophane that crackled loud enough to echo off the stained glass. Butterscotch, peppermint, those strawberry ones that only exist in the purses of women over seventy. They would hand them out like communion to any child who looked even slightly restless. Half the kids in church were sugared up before the first hymn ended.