I recently had the opportunity to attend a Sunday morning service at the church where I grew up, something I haven't been able to do since I was 22, when my husband was an seminary intern there. There was something precious about the familiarity of the drive and the direction of the sunlight, the fact that the childcare worker in Adelaide's room knew exactly who I belonged to, and she shed a tear over the memory of my grandmother, Addie Mae, who taught five-year-old Sunday School at that same church for 55 years. How grateful I am for the welcome reminder of the faithfulness I inherited, for the legacy she spotted in my eyes and in a bouncing three-year-old girl in a twirly blue dress.