A tear dropped onto the page, pooling on "Where's," causing the word to blur and run.

"Why didn't you come to comfort me, Mama?" Faith asked, her grief fresh and raw.

"I did, Babe, you hold my words of solace in your hands."

The response was prompt and so loud in her mind, she looked around, expecting to find an apparition standing in her room.

Faith smiled at the term of endearment. Her mother liked 'B' words. She used them indiscriminately with all of her children. They were Babe or Bozo or Bugger or Bumpkin, but Babe was the one she used most often, the one Faith and her brothers cherished. No matter what age, they were her Babes.

Faith went to the i-tunes on her computer. She had downloaded her CD collection so that she had music whenever she wanted. She opened the one entitled Mama's Concert. Faith was only seven when Mama sang the farewell concert at a church they were leaving. As a child she played a cassette tape of the concert over and over. It comforted her, was her lullaby when she had trouble falling asleep, and served as her goodnight caress when Mama was away and unable to administer the nightly hug and kiss. Later, Josh burned it to a CD for her, and now she had the concert on her computer along with her other CDs. One of the songs was dedicated to Sydney's children. Faith was mentioned specifically. Clicking on the long-silent folder, Faith pressed number five. Her mother's voice flooded the room.

"This song is for my children. My teenaged boys think they are grown and refuse to acknowledge that they are children. At home I sing it to Faith. She's still young enough to admit she's a child. The song is not really about childhood. It's a reminder that I will always love my children, no matter how old they are and no matter what they do. But it's also a reminder that God has loved them from the time he knit them together in my womb, and He will love them until the day He takes them home."

Sweetly, the words resonated, touching Faith's deep-seated grief, soothing away the rough edges. "I was there when you drew the breathe of life, and I could hear your voice the first time that you cried. And though you couldn't see me, I was very near. There is something now that I want you to hear. You will always be my child in my eyes. When you need some love my arms are open wide. Even as you're growing old, I hope you realize. You will always be my child in my eyes."

"My child," Faith whispered. Mama had changed one word to make the song personal. The song as written said, "You will always be a child." Faith had heard the original by Ray Boltz on the radio. She'd asked Mama, "Why did he change the words? You always sing 'my child.'"

Mama had laughed. "He didn't change them, Babe. I did. I always thought 'a child' sounded like the singer was saying you would always be childish to him. To me the song means that you will always be 'my child.' Not that I will think of you as childish, but even when you're grown I'll love you as only a parent can love their child. You will always be my child. Nothing you can do will change my love for you, because you're my child."

"Like 'I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always. As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be." Faith had sung the ditty from the children's book by the same name.

"That's right," Mama had said huskily, "like 'I'll lover you forever.'"

Faith pictured the worn favorite that still graced her bookshelf. They had read the book over and over as she grew up. Mama read it to her. So did Daddy. Even Josh and Zach had been forced into service from time to time. Mama usually read it in church for Mother's Day. Josh and Aunt Dinah even acted it out one Mother's Day for children's church, while Mama read the book and sang the song, using the tune she had invented and taught her children.

Faith could still pretty much quote the book. When she thought about the end where the son rocked his mother and sang to her, she sang aloud in a quavering voice, "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living, my Mommy you'll be."

"I didn't get to rock you or sing to you, Mama," Faith said. "You died too young. I thought you would rock my children and sing them this lullaby. Why? Why?"

Faith began to rock back and forth, tears running silently down her face. Finally she began to pray. "I know she's with you, God, in a better place, but I miss her so. I don't know why You took her now when I still needed her, but then I imagine I'll always think I need her. Maybe You knew that if she lived she would end up like Grandpa, a shell of a woman. Maybe I needed to learn to lean on You instead of on her. There are a lot of maybes, but I don't need an explanation. I trust You."

She sang the little song to her God.

"I'll love You forever. I'll trust You for always. As long as I'm living, my Abba you'll be."

As the improvised words faded into nothing, a peace wrapped around Faith's grieving heart. She still missed her mother, but the pain was bearable. Her heart felt what her mind had known and tried to convince her of, her mother was with God in Heaven and life would go on. Everything was OK; God was in control.

"If He was in control when your Mama died, then He was in control when Aaron aborted his kid," a voice whispered. "He's still in control now while you're meddling where you weren't invited. Let Him take care of that nuclear plant."

Faith looked at the picture of Kyra and Shandra she had attached to the dresser mirror. "I'm not going to do anything to upset her," she said aloud. "I promise, God. I'll just go with her tomorrow and see what happens."

As the cocoon of peace unraveled, the words she'd just sung mocked Faith as they reverberated through her mind. "I'll trust you forever."

#

When we got to seminary, David plunged in with intense fervor. He dedicated his classes in memory of his beloved Maw and that meant only 'A's would suffice. I got a job in the campus preschool teaching kindergarten. It was outside my certification, but I was not ready to teach in inner city schools with their attendant problems. David also got a part-time job in the campus library, and I enrolled in night classes so I could work towards a Masters in Religious Education.

After a few months, the busyness began to take its toll. We saw each other rarely and were usually preoccupied when we did. One night as I stood before the bathroom mirror brushing my teeth, the light caught the gleam of the tiny diamond in my earring. I remembered the desolation of the soul when David and I let life pull us apart in South Carolina. Going into the bedroom, I sat down beside David on the bed and gently took the textbook from his hands.

"We need to talk, Babe," I said.

"Sydney, I've got to finish that chapter before tomorrow," he said in exasperation.

"This is more important," I said. "We're headed back into the abyss, David. We're doing good things this time, but our marriage is suffering. When is the last time we really talked?"

He looked perplexed, his brow wrinkled in concentration. "Right after Maw's funeral," he ventured. "Months ago, I guess. We'll do better, but right now I need to finish that chapter."

"Wait. This won't take long. We can avoid the pit, but we have to have a plan. 'We'll do better' won't work."

"What kind of plan?"

"Let's calendar a weekly date. We can set aside two hours a week for us. We can't discuss work or school during those two hours. We can go out for coffee and desert. We can eat dinner if you want. We can stay home and snuggle up on the couch. We can even plant a garden together. What we cannot do is watch a movie or television. If we stay home, we unplug the phone. Those two hours a week are our uninterrupted time to keep our marriage healthy."

"So church socials and group encounters don't count?" he said with a grin.

"What do you think?"

"Sounds like a plan," he said. "And I know you're right, Syd. Just this few minutes talking to you has refreshed me. We don't want to lose that earring again, figuratively speaking, of course."

He took out his weekly planner and frowned at the page.

"I have a test on Friday so I have to study Thursday night, and you have class anyway. Wednesday night is prayer meeting and choir practice. Tuesday is your other class. Monday I have my mentoring group. Friday nights the young adults usually plan something. I don't know, Syd. This week looks pretty full."

"Think outside the box, David. Don't let the word date dictate an evening encounter. We can set aside two hours in an afternoon or at lunch on Saturday, whatever works. The main thing is that we have to treat the time as sacred. We can't cancel unless we're on our death bed."

"I'll come to your death bed, Syd." His dimples flashed. "So even that's not a problem."

We finally settled on 1 to 3 pm on Mondays. Seminary classes didn't commence until Tuesdays, to give the preacher boys, who left for the church field on weekends, time to get back. As a result, Kindergarten was closed that day, too.

The date tradition continued throughout our 30 years of marriage. The appointed time changed with the season of our lives, but a weekly date remained sacred. We learned the lesson of the lost earring: half a love was not enough to sustain a marriage.

It was a good thing 'the date' was instituted when it was because our lives were about to change dramatically. David was called as associate pastor at his home church. He worked with the youth and preached on Sunday nights. We drove to his Mom's every weekend and spent Friday through Sunday nights in his old bedroom. We led Friday Night Encounter, a youth Bible study and game time every week. Saturdays David visited and agonized over a sermon to preach on Sunday night.

One afternoon, I was sitting at Maw Lander's counter trying to learn how to make crawfish etouffee. I was extremely thirsty.

"I don't know why I'm so thirsty," I said after downing my second glass of water. "I don't ever drink water. I always put tea in my water – hot or cold. Lately, though, I've craved plain old water."

"I'm the same way," Nicole said. "The only time I craved water was when I was pregnant. I could never get enough. You're not pregnant are you?" The gleam in her eye told me she wouldn't be adverse to the possibility.

"No way," I said. "I'm on the pill."

I didn't tell her, but I was a week late. The previous month we'd taken the youth to a weeklong conference during Spring Break. When we left, I was in my off week, when I discontinued the pill to let nature take its course. I forgot to take my new pack with me and missed the first three days. When I called the doctor, he told me that starting the cycle three days late wouldn't work and to use rhythm until after my next period. I had, without telling David why I suddenly had a weeklong headache.

When I was ten days late, I called the doctor and made an appointment. I still didn't enlighten David, and he was too busy to notice the absence of the monthly curse. The day of my doctor's appointment, David had a Hebrew test. Hebrew was an abomination to him. Every other course he aced without a problem. Hebrew, with its backwards reading and its appearance of chicken scratch, was a daily challenge. I thought it best not to tell him just before he took a Hebrew test that he might be about to become a father. Fatherhood was not in his long-range plans until after seminary and a few years into the ministry, if at all.

While David was struggling to translate Hebrew, I was killing a rabbit. Later, I met David in the hall outside of his Hebrew class.

"Hey, Syd," he said with a grin. "What are you doing here?"

"I had a few minutes off," I said. "How was your test?"

"Well, I'm sure I passed it. I might have even made an A."

"I passed my test, too." I delivered the understatement.

"What test?" The left side of his mouth went up quizzically. "Were grades posted for one of your night classes? I don't remember you studying for a test."

"I didn't have to study for this test." Gulping in air, I blurted. "I took a pregnancy test."

I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't exultation.

"You mean I'm going to be a Dad?" David said, dropping his books in the hall. He grabbed me in a bear hug and danced me around. "I'm going to be a Dad, I'm going to be a Dad," he chanted.

Students stopped and clapped, shouting congratulations. I was dazed.

When the hall cleared and David let me go, I leaned weakly against the wall.

"I thought you'd be upset," I said. "This isn't exactly the most opportune time."

"Is there ever an opportune time?" he said. "God must think we're ready."

"Aren't you scared?" I asked.

"I will be." He shrugged. "Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day you feel him kick for the first time. But today we're going to celebrate."

My mind fastened on the word 'him.'

"What if he's a she?" I said.

"Who cares? 'He' is just a figure of speech. We're going to have a baby with your big green eyes and olive skin. He – or she," he conceded, "can have my feet – yours are too small – and my height. Your diminutive height is cute, but kids are getting taller by the generation."

Surrendering to his silliness, I added, "She can't have your knobby knees or crowded teeth."

"Well, what about your limp, straight hair?"

"Yours might have a little body, but it's kind of sparse," I teased, running my fingers through his thinning locks. "And those horn-like indentions that expose your devilish streak, they definitely can't be passed along."

David's euphoria waxed and waned as the pregnancy progressed. His behavior gave credence to the Couvade Syndrome, where men experience sympathetic physical and mental symptoms when their wives are pregnant. Since I had no nausea, he didn't either, but both of us experienced mood swings and cravings. Fortunately, panic never ensued. We took the pregnancy in stride, accepting the necessary changes.

#

An envelope was inserted in the journal at this point. Faith pulled out a handmade card. A rose was etched on the front of the card, identical to the one on the card David gave Syd on their wedding day, but instead of her face, a fetus was curled in the center of the rose. Inside it read:

The Promise Extended

By David Webb Lander

I promised to spend a lifetime, darling,

In times of good and ill.

The birth of our first child

Will not this promise still.

I promised to spend a lifetime, darling,

And now let me explain;

The vows we have spoken, love,

Will carry you through childbirth pain.

I promised to spend a lifetime, darling,

Loving you faithful and true.

Today this promise I extend

To our child; it is his due.