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decided I should call Dr. Wingo. Knowing my history, he scheduled me for an ultrasound. During the screening, he began to mumble. “Well,” he said, “it seems to be in the right place.”
    He peered at me through thick lens, scratching his balding head.
    â€œWhat is?” I asked, alarmed.
    â€œThe baby,” he said. My heart nearly leaped from my chest as he pointed to the monitor of shadows and light. “See?”
    Numbly, I nodded, suddenly weak-kneed and filled with wonder.
    Dr. Wingo looked at me, shaking his head. “There’s no medical way this baby should be in your uterus.” He continued shaking his head. “You must have gone to church right.” Then he laughed and patted my arm. “You need to see an ob-gyn man.”
    â€œYou mean — ” I pressed my fingers to my mouth as tears rushed to my eyes.
    â€œYou’re pregnant, Deede.”

Chapter Two
    â€œParents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person’s character lies in their own hands.”
    Â 
— Anne Frank
    Â 
    Â 
    On December 10, Faith Jean Stowe was born. Faith was the only name that fit and the middle name, Jean, was in honor of my mother. “She’s our child of faith,” Dan insisted.
    I agreed. Our little tan-haired, blue-eyed daughter was named for the time we believed God for a child. It was only after we relinquished our ungodly passion to Him that He gave her to us.
    The first time I held her in my arms was the highlight of my entire life. The tiny, perfectly round blue eyes latched onto mine and I would have sworn there was an electrical surge of love that flashed between us and encompassed me until I felt I would burst with it. What I felt, holding her to my heart, was so intense that it could have burned a hole clean through me. Dan was equally beguiled.
    I had expected a solid, forceful link to form, but nothing of this magnitude. This maternal love was a force of
nature, not at all what I’d expected. It was fierce and all consuming.
    I was looking at a part of me. Never before had I had the opportunity to see a part of my genetic self. This was my connection.
    Wonder and joy gripped me as I watched one tiny fist flail about and brush rosebud lips that immediately began to suckle it.
    â€œAhhh,” I breathed and felt a sudden burn of tears. They trickled over.
    I looked up and saw that Dan, too, was moved to tears. He sat on the bed beside me, arm around my shoulders as we adored our creation. Our miracle.
    She was flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone.
    I was finally someone’s roots.
    Faith’s.
    Since that moment, I’ve never been the same

    Faith was an adorable baby. That wasn’t just my opinion. Everywhere we took her, folks were drawn to her like hummingbirds to nectar. Her cornflower blue eyes seemed always alight with some undisclosed joke.
    â€œHi, Faith,” Priss pealed at our first family Christmas dinner when Faith was six weeks old. Faith’s spontaneous eruption of belly laughter had a domino effect and soon the entire clan of twelve was laughing with her until teary-eyed. They pressed into a circle to engage her with goofy greetings and she never failed to respond with glee.
    â€œHow’d you luck up so?” Lexie pouted in jest. “Jensen took three months to find his tickle-box.”
    â€œHey, he’s just as delightful.” I gooched him in his chunky tummy to demonstrate and his mouth spread
wide, spilling laughter, rewarding me with a deep-seated pleasure, that sense of belonging that only family provides. Jensen, already in his second year, was evolving even more into the little jock. He loved balls, any kind or size and already watched football games with Adam, his dad. Yet, his spirit was gentle and generous. He watched over Faith like a nanny.
    Amazingly, when Faith would begin to cry, Jensen’s lips would begin to wobble, and he,