Faith has always seemed to come easily to Mama and Aunt Geneva, and to their mother before them. They passed it onto me like a wedding dress every woman in our family eventually wore. Once it got to me, though, it needed to be let out or taken in. Something about the way it lay against my beliefs and rationales never quite fit. I’ve often wondered how I can make this garment that has always brought them so much peace, mine. When I’m more helpless and confused than I’ve ever felt, could it ever suit me? Could it help me?
