In 2010, on the eve before my 19th birthday, I wrote a blog post about my childhood encounter with my older cousin’s Ouija board. Eight months later, Amanda passed away. Now, shortly after the 13th anniversary of her death, I’m finally finishing the story I started.

While most would agree that questioning the tenets of your own belief system is necessary for growth, I can't shake the feeling that my search for the truth looks on some days more like a flat-out rejection of The Truth I've been taught—the same one that's kept me company in my safe little bubble for years. Which leads us back to the idea of faith, and the ability to trust that there's a God who wants me even at my most uncertain.

There was something significant about turning 27, something that I couldn't quite put my finger on. It didn't occur to me as I celebrated with my family in Rayne, or even when I got back home on the evening of my actual birthday. A week later, on a walk around the block to get out of my head, it finally hit me. Twenty-seven. The age you were. The age you'll always be.