And that she did.
A curly-haired girl sitting in the second row pew, who had been asking her parents for a year if she could become a sponsor, was now suddenly determined.
It was my youngest child.
As soon as the service was over, my 5 year old daughter raced to the back of the church where photographs of available children lined the table. By the time I reached the display, my daughter held the image of a petite boy named Marco with tousled hair and a reluctant smile.
I knew what was coming.