I often marvel at how God brought me to faith. I grew up in a nominal Roman Catholic home. My parents divorced before I really knew what divorce was. I remember “the talk” where they broke the news. The parents had corralled me in the living room. Mom and dad disagreed so often that they rarely spoke to me as a unit, so this smelled . . . unnatural. I was seated on a drab brown couch, seven years old and facing south. After they told me, I deliberately feigned denseness as a way to express my anger. “What? Does this mean I’ll have no father?” They tried to explain, that no, I had it wrong. But in my horror and hurt, I was determined to remain clueless as long as possible to draw out this excruciating moment for them. Even seven years olds can understand revenge.