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I realized Faith marched to her own drum beat by the time she was seven, when she allowed some adolescent neighborhood kids to go into our cellar and haul out barrels of discount liquid soap from an abandoned networking venture. They proceeded to use an empty barrel into which they poured the contents from others. By the time they finished filling them with the water hose, suds covered half of our back lawn.

Dan and I had left Faith that afternoon with Sandra, a teen baby sitter, to do some early Santa Claus shopping and when we returned, our mouths dropped open at the sight of the monstrous white foam wall rolling around the side of our house and encroaching upon our front lawn.

When we sprang from the car and squished around to the back yard, ankle-deep in suds, we saw the five-gallon
buckets and a larger barrel, hose still hooked over the side spewing water into the ocean of liquid detergent.

The culprits had just moments ago fled. Probably heard our car coming. Dan rushed to turn off the water. I marched into the house where the baby sitter watched television soap operas and sipped coke. “Sandra, where's Faith?” I cried, startling her.

Blinking, she looked around as though it was the first time she'd thought about it. “Uh, she was through here a minute ago. I think she went into her room.” I renewed my vow to be more selective when hiring baby sitters.

There, I flung open the door. She lay on her bed, feet bare, arms crossed, head propped on pink pillows, watching a Disney Channel. “Who made that mess outside, Faith?” I asked, barely controlling my anger.

“Tracy and Doyle Harrigan,” she said calmly of our adolescent neighbors. “I told them you wouldn't like it.”

She was so laid-back about the whole thing that we never suspected she was involved. Only years later did it occur to me that Faith must have been the ring leader because the two boys were nice kids and would not have done such an in-your-face thing without Faith instigating such “entertainment.” After all, she alone knew where the unmarked soap was stored. And her feet were bare when I checked on her that day. Her socks were probably soaked and tossed in the laundry basket with wet towels.

At the time, however, Faith was a quiet child. She'd never given me a moment's concern. No back talk. Total respect. She listened and simply observed. For several of her middle childhood years, I knew little of what she was actually thinking. I thought I did. And I felt peace about her development. She spent much of her time reading
and doing crossword puzzles while I did my newspaper writing.

We did lots of family things together in those early years. Faith would, I think, have loved to have had siblings. We were never again able to conceive.

“Mama, let's help with the church's Thanksgiving free meals for the poor,” eleven-year-old Faith ventured. “Pastor Hanover said we could serve if we want to. They need two or three more helpers.”

“Sure,” I said, hugging her snuggly and thinking again what a big ol' heart beat inside her.

“Hey!” She pulled away, her eyes wide with inspiration “I'll call Jensen. He can help, too.” She rushed to the phone to call her favorite cousin and within moments it was all set. “Chloe is coming to help, too,” she added magnanimously.

Glory be.
Even at nine, Chloe could out-wisecrack Jensen and hold her own with Faith any day of the week. That Faith had included her astounded me. In a very good way.

And when we served the needy that Thanksgiving, her social gene went into overdrive. She and Jensen made those folks feel like royalty. She truly loved everybody in those days. Hers was the unreserved brand of love that spurred her to unabashedly pamper each diner as though he or she were the most important being on planet earth.

She and Chloe even called a truce in their shameless competition — raging by now — to out-do each other. Their focus was any given moment's reigning accomplishment. Whatever achievement shimmered on the horizon automatically drew disdain from the lagging
cousin. But today, they worked beautifully, side by side with nary a snarky-jibe at each other.

It was a rare time of peace.

I couldn't have been more proud.

Another day, Faith came in from school teeming with injustice at the death penalty. “Mama, it's just not right! Killing people like our country does is wrong, wrong,
wrong
.”

“It's just in murder cases,” I explained to her. “When — ”

“Mama,” she looked at me incredulously, those blue eyes so clear and persuaded they seemed steeped with translucent tears. “It is
never right
to kill. Life is too — too precious. Don't you see?”

I nodded because I did, indeed, see.

Her propensity to
see
was vast, her IQ extremely high according to her school placement tests. To tackle any subject was effortless to Faith. We never pushed her because we didn't have to. She always seemed on top of whatever challenge engaged her. I learned early that she operated on her own steam and did not require supervision.

Was that where it went wrong, I've asked myself all these years later?

At such times, I remind myself that Faith's strong will was already fully operative. Untested.

It was untested because there was no provocation for a battle of wills. The most serious skirmish was one of laughter.

“Mama,” Faith squared off in front of the freezer door in her jeans and white Reeboks. “Buying fat-free ice cream is
child abuse.”

At that time, Faith was everything we'd ever dreamed our child would be. And more. We wanted to allow her to
make her own destiny-choices. With her great mind, we were confident she would make good ones.

We attended church together faithfully, where Faith immersed herself in any youth program or drive in progress, displaying incredible versatility in many areas, including music, dance, drama, as well as advanced people skills.

She was, we were convinced, headed for a beautiful, successful adult life.

One Christmas Eve, I lay on Faith's bed with her for a mother-daughter time of reminiscing. “What was your life like, Mama?” she asked quietly. “Being adopted and all.”

I sighed deeply and smiled at her. “It was marvelous,” I said, truly meaning it. “I was always aware that I was with my mom and dad because they chose me. I didn't just — happen.” I grinned at her then. “And you, too, can feel that same sense of pride that you were chosen, Faith. One great miracle did God give us. And that was you.”

She smiled sleepily and reached over to hug me. “I love you sooo much, Mama. You're the best. Thanks for hanging in there, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, laughing at how, when she'd popped up in my life, it was such a surprise. Such a miracle.

This was all Dan and I had ever prayed for. To have a child to love.

And one who loved us back.

“No, Faith,” Dan said. “You cannot go to the mall and hang out. It's too dangerous.”

“But all the kids are doing it, Daddy.” She sported a black outfit and matching fingernail polish. Amid her pale features, onyx lipstick and mascara stood out in stark relief. I'd cocked my brow a few times but resisted critiquing this Goth phase too harshly. I felt that, in time,
this, too, shall pass
. And eventually, it did.

“Honey,” I inserted. “Daddy's right. It's too dangerous. There was a girl named Tammy who was kidnapped last week and they found her body in a lake just today. I heard it on the news. She was grabbed from a launderette.”

The grim news failed to daunt her fervor. “Ya'll don't ever let me have fun,” she grouched, her lips and cheeks puffing in a pout. “I hate being an only child. You always think of the worst thing that can happen.” She stomped out of the den and slammed her bedroom door.

Faith, twelve, now a middle school student, was entering peer-kingdom, where she sought to do things with friends.
Everybody's doing it
became her mantra.

I understood.

Many of her school friends were from broken homes and while I sympathized with their unique problems, I saw Faith begin to adopt their mode of operation in her dealings with Dan and myself. And their extreme MOs did not fit into our family dynamics.

Anger began to take seed when Faith compared her life to her friends' lives and felt that since two divorced parents — many times competing and vying for their child's affection — bent the rules and overcompensated with her friend, that we should do the same with her. Of course, we did not.

Faith came to hate the word “no.”

Because she'd flowed pleasantly in earlier years, we'd not had to often refuse her what she wanted and needed.
Now, the variables — her wants — began to drastically change.

But Dan and I tried to be patient through those times.

At thirteen and fourteen, things got worse.

“No, you will not go to that concert in Atlanta,” Dan all but shouted, unusual for him. He'd always been the more patient one. “I won't have my daughter sleeping in the park all night. God only knows what could happen.”

“But Daddy, Geena, Patty and Laura are going. We'll be chaperoned by one of the mothers.”

“No. I don't care who'll chaperone. Females are vulnerable in that kind of setting, especially in a big city like Atlanta.”

Faith was fuming. I could tell, even though she didn't say anything more. Dan sensed it, too. “Faith, do not — I repeat — do not buck me on this because if you do, I'll — I'll whip you. I don't want to do that, but I forbid you to go to that concert. Do you understand?”

I held my breath, struck by how things had spun from negotiation to drastic ultimatums so quickly.

Faith, eyes set straight ahead, face unreadable, nodded slightly.

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

I knew Dan used the threat as a last, desperate resort. He was terrified that something bad would happen to her. We'd just that week read about a woman and her two daughters being abducted and murdered while vacationing in a remote area of a South Carolina state park.

But when Dan relayed this information to Faith, she was not impressed.

The next day, the day of the planned exodus to Atlanta, Dan and I drove to the school to pick up Faith. She was not there waiting as usual. Dan and I began to
grow uneasy and asked some students standing nearby if they'd seen Faith.

“She left in a blue Ford Lexus,” one girl told Dan.

“That's Laura's car,” I said, a knot of dread tightening my chest. We drove to Laura's house where the car was already being packed. I could see luggage in the open trunk. Dan strode to the porch and banged on the door. When Laura answered, Dan demanded, “I want to talk to Faith.”

“She's not here.”