It comes free with a splash, a pink jewel, a miracle that something so beautiful can emerge from water so murky.

God gave her one moment in time that she could stretch out for as long as she lives, this would be it.

begins to feel now for the first time lying under him: that she’s integral to his world, just as he is her world. She cannot imagine now that the pleasure she sees on his face will be something she too will experience from time to time, or that she’ll unobtrusively find ways to guide him in a manner that pleases her.

But such memories are woven from gossamer threads; time eats holes in the fabric, and these she must darn with myth and fable.

Strangely, it never occurred to Western cooks to dry roast and grind together peppercorn, fennel seed, cardamom, cloves, and cinnamon, then throw that spice mix into oil along with mustard seed, garlic, and onions to make a masala, the foundation of any curry.

This is a part of me. Like the goldsmith’s wife whose face is scarred by smallpox, or the potter’s son whose foot is turned. This is me. This is who I am.”

In that sheltered, sacred nook between his arm and chest, she’s at peace. “Forgive me, Lord.” She thought

The chaos and hurt in God’s world are unfathomable mysteries, yet the Bible shows her that there is order beneath. As her father would say, “Faith is to know the pattern is there, even though none is visible.”

All water is connected, and her world is limitless. He stands at the limits of his. On her sixteenth birthday, she hears a commotion