She nodded politely. He was right, but it was the so on that was the trouble now, and in particular that bit of the so on that was made up of Mma Potokwane’s troubles. And then there was Fanwell, whose trial was due to take place the following day.

“Yes, Bishop. There are many things to worry about in this life. Many things.”

The Bishop smiled. “But we must not let those overwhelm us,” he said. The smile faded, to be replaced by a look of concern. “You are all right, aren’t you, Mma Ramotswe?”

She looked up at the sky. The man to whom she was talking, she reminded herself, had major concerns to think about. He knew the issues of Africa, its sorrows. He knew all about the burdens and difficulties of those who struggled to get by in countries where there was cruelty and oppression. It was all very well for her to stand here drinking tea in a peaceful and well-ordered country, but what about those who did not have that luxury? And should she then worry him with her petty concerns—very small ones, really—when there were many weightier things occupying his attention? No, she thought. No. “Everything is all right, Bishop,” she said.

The Bishop was tapped on the shoulder by one of the members of the choir and detached himself from Mma Ramotswe. She helped a few people to tea, poured another cup for herself, and then looked around the group of people who were still talking to one another in the church courtyard. Mma Ramotswe felt that she needed to catch up on local news. There were always the newspapers, of course, but the real news, a complete picture of what was really happening, could only be gleaned from actual conversation with people. It was ordinary people who knew what was happening—not official spokesmen or the editors of newspapers. And the closer one got to the grass roots, the nearer one came to the people who actually experienced the effect of what was happening in the public world above them, the more complete one’s understanding could become.

She surveyed the faces of the congregation. These were all good people—or they were good people at that hour on a Sunday morning. Some of them, she knew, found it more difficult still to be good as the day wore on, and even more difficult when Monday morning dawned. But they were all human, just as she was, and the real issue was whether they were doing their best. Mma Ramotswe felt that as long as you did your best, then it was not too important if you fell below the standards that others might expect of you. What mattered was doing your best and then, if your best turned out to be not very good, at least admitting it and trying a bit harder next time.