Philosophically, she was a skeptic, the only one she'd ever met as far as she could tell, and, as such, she would not have been surprised to find she'd been outwitted by a powerful evil demon putting all its efforts into defeating her, but this she hadn't seen coming.
Her whole life she’d been told that the Grace of God was all around her, that she had to open herself up to receiving it. Well, she was more than willing to receive it if only she could recognize it. Lately she’d begun to entertain the notion that the offering of grace may not be gentle and inviting, but rather startling and violent, and she would be ready.
Her mama called it stubbornness. She preferred to think of it as confident determination. Either way, she felt the expression suited her face and she wore it on a daily basis.
It would never matter how many times she was told that the girl in the photograph was her great-grandmother; she was too young to comprehend the vast passage of time that separated the girl in the photograph from herself. She felt something for the girl; it wasn’t love exactly, but a feeling no less real, that seemed to swell whenever they told her stories.
She felt she had more faith than most, anyway, and she wondered, if faith can move a mountain, just how much faith it would take to fly away.
Her mama always told her not to get too close to the edge, but she loved the way the water felt cool on one side and warm on the other.