Surviving Sunday Service With a Purse the Size of a Buick

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.

But candy was only the beginning. Those purses held tissues, the soft kind that smelled faintly of lavender. They held little bottles of lotion that had been in there since the Nixon administration. They held checkbooks, sewing kits, loose change, and pens that wrote in three different colors. They held cough drops, safety pins, and at least one folded church bulletin from 1984 that they were saving for reasons known only to them and the Lord.

Some of them carried perfume that could knock a buzzard off a fence post. One spritz and the entire sanctuary smelled like roses, powder, and whatever memory they were trying to hold onto. Others carried notes, recipes, prayer lists, and the names of every cousin they had, written in tiny cursive on the back of an envelope.

And then there were the mystery items. Things you only saw glimpses of. A small hammer. A deck of cards with the jokers missing. A tiny flashlight. Charmin toilet paper coupons. A roll of quarters. A pocket calendar from a funeral home. Brass knuckles. A key to something that probably no longer existed. If you asked what any of it was for, they would just smile and say, “You never know.”

The truth is, those purses were more than storage. They were security blankets. They were preparedness kits. They were the physical form of a lifetime spent taking care of people. If someone needed something, anything, the church ladies were ready. They had lived long enough to know that life will surprise you, and it is best to meet those surprises with a Certs mint and a tissue.

I miss those purses. I miss the women who carried them. I miss the way they could quiet a crying kid, fix a loose button, and hand you a candy all in one smooth motion. They were the quiet heroes of Sunday mornings, armed with nothing but faith, experience, and a handbag that could have doubled as carry‑on luggage.

Sometimes I think the world would run smoother if we all had a church lady purse within reach. Not for the stuff inside, but for the spirit behind it. The idea that someone, somewhere, has exactly what you need and is more than happy to share it.