Growing up, God was vague, was love, was something woven through everything—trees and hands, cats and chairs. But I made no connection between God and faith. I was told, With enough faith, you can heal yourselves. You can heal others. I thought of faith as a part of me, an organ like the heart, that pumped magic instead of blood. Faith could make objects fly or make quarters appear in my ear. That was a magic trick my dad did. He’d show me a quarter and move it from palm to palm, back and forth and back again, and then, the palm would be empty but he’d pull the quarter from my ear. I saw women on television levitating and spoons bent by a man’s stare. Rabbits came out of hats and birds out of baking pans. I drew a picture of the inside of my body with the faith organ resting between my heart and my stomach, shiny like a star. I used the gold crayon in the biggest crayon box only for special occasions. There was my faith, shining bright in the center of me.