By Jodi Picoult
One among America's strongest and thought-provoking novelists, no 1 ny instances bestselling writer Jodi Picoult brilliantly examines trust, miracles, and the complicated middle of relations. whilst the wedding of Mariah White and her dishonest husband, Colin, turns grotesque and disintegrates, their seven-year- previous daughter, religion, is there to witness all of it. within the aftermath of a speedy divorce, Mariah falls right into a deep depression—and unexpectedly religion, a baby with out spiritual historical past whatever, hears divine voices, begins reciting biblical passages, and develops stigmata. And whilst the dazzling healings commence, mom and daughter are thrust into the unstable heart of controversy and into the warmth of a custody battle—trapped in a mad media circus that threatens what little balance the kinfolk has left.
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One among America's strongest and thought-provoking novelists, number 1 ny occasions bestselling writer Jodi Picoult brilliantly examines trust, miracles, and the advanced middle of family members. while the wedding of Mariah White and her dishonest husband, Colin, turns grotesque and disintegrates, their seven-year- outdated daughter, religion, is there to witness all of it.
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Extra resources for Keeping Faith: A Novel
They were specials. Maybe that was the appeal. ” He turns to Ian, his face grave. “I love what you do, Ian. But network executives have notoriously short attention spans. ” Taking the fax from Ian’s hand, James crumples it into a ball. ” Although he’d been asked by countless journalists, Ian Fletcher refused to isolate the incidents in his life that made him stop believing in God. In fact, not only did he admit to being born a nonbeliever, he made a living out of trying to convince the world that everyone was born a nonbeliever and that faith was something one was subtly schooled to accept–like cow’s milk, or potty training–because it was socially acceptable.
Our seven acres are mostly woods, tucked behind the house; we’re close enough to the road that at night the headlights of passing cars sweep over the beds like lighthouse beacons. The farmhouse itself is full of opposites that still attract: a sagging porch backed by brand-new Pella windows, a claw-foot tub with a Shower Massage, Colin and me. The driveway dips, rising at the end near the road and again near the house. As we turn down it, Faith gasps in delight. “Daddy’s home! ” So do I, but then I always do.
The first thing I do is trip over the box of crayons. ” I gather fistfuls in my hands, set them back in the holiday Oreo tin we use to store them. When I’m finished, I rock back on my heels, to find Faith staring coldly at me. “I’m sorry,” I say again, but I am not speaking of the crayons. When Faith doesn’t respond, I look down at the paper she’s been drawing on. A bat and a witch, dancing beside a fire. ” Inspiration strikes; I pick up the drawing and hold it close. “Can I keep it? ” Faith tips her head, reaches for the picture, and rips it down the middle.