A cold Sunday and the church-goers were bundled up.
The very old man in front of me in the pew could not weigh more than 120 lbs.
He took off his "Browns" watch cap to reveal a bald spot and some wispy white hair, from his comb-over, that floated for a moment in the holy air.
He opened his personal prayer book. It was black faux leather, its corners dog-eared by use and the gold edges of the pages had gone to mostly silver from age.
At some point in the service I noticed he plucked a small card from the prayer book and cupped it in his hand and stared at it for a while, as a smile spread across his weathered face.
I thought it was one of those cards you pick up when you write your name in the sign-in book at a wake.
But no, it was a picture of his smiling wife in her thirties.
It's so good to be remembered.