What is Well-Planted Will Not Be Uprooted

It was the Lantern Festival. She bowed three times in quick succession, in front of a waist high metal bowl. In the bowl was quiver of long thin wooden sticks, with numbers carved into the bottoms. She asked a silent question, and then withdrew one of the sticks. She noted the number, and retreated to the back wall, were little cubbies were numbered to correspond with the sticks. She took out the paper, and was visibly shaken by what she read. She needed some space. Tears welled up in her eyes and she laughed a nervous, resigned laugh. Noone spoke. The temple wasn't very busy, because of the virus. A few hot tears made their way down her cheek. She looked utterly defeated. Sometimes it's better not to ask, she told me. We walked back out of the temple in silence.