My Foolish Heart by Susan May Warren Page A

nudged something inside him.
    He sat down and turned up the volume.
    A commercial break, and she returned with an excerpt of yet another show. She solved the problems of a workplace romance and a long-distance relationship and headed off a would-be affair.
    And by the end, he’d become uncomfortably entwined by that soft, compassionate voice. Like she might really care about the saps calling in. Thankfully, The Bean came on and knocked him back to his senses.
    What was a foolish heart, anyway?
    Roger whined in his sleep, his legs twitching. Yes, that happened to him sometimes. He dreamed of running, or worse, his leg itched.
    He turned off The Bean .
    â€œRog, try and stay home tonight, huh?” Walking past his bedroom, he saw the neighbor’s light flick out. The summer wind, cool through his screen, drew him out onto the porch. He eased down on his front steps, stared at stars against the dark pane of night. The sky seemed so close, he wanted to reach up to heaven.
    You just might be the guy to fill his shoes. Yes, he’d like to someday have the reputation that Coach Presley had. But fill his shoes? No. He wanted his own pair.
    * * *
    If Issy could, she’d skip over Sundays and go right to Mondays. Not that life inside her house felt much different on Mondays, but Sundays seemed to bring to life all her limitations.
    She’d listened to Pastor Dan Matthews’s sermon on the radio and couldn’t push from her thoughts the image of watching him from the third pew, right side, the sunlight streaming in through the tall windows. Sometimes she could even see her father sitting beside her, his arm stretched out over the pew. Hear his rich tenor singing “Amazing Grace,” the occasional “Amen!” muttered under his breath.
    Yes, Sundays she missed him the most.
    She tried to assuage the pain by sitting in his recliner under the puddle of lamplight, his marked Bible on her lap. Sometimes she read his playbook, the notes he scribbled in the margins.
    Today, she simply tried to figure out just what Dan meant by his verse of choice. “This same God who takes care of me will supply all your needs from his glorious riches.”
    What was she supposed to do with that?
    The teakettle whistled. She got up, went to the kitchen, took out a bag of chamomile, and dropped it into her mother’s favorite cup, a souvenir she’d picked up in Germany during their twentieth wedding anniversary trip. Issy poured the water in, dunking the bag, the rusty brown bleeding into the water. Then she dropped the bag into the sink.
    Bless Lucy for the bag of groceries she’d left this morning, probably reaped from her own pantry, or Issy would be relegated to the half-eaten fish burger and the cold corn.
    â€œThis same God . . . will supply all your needs . . .”
    Okay, He’d supplied food, but that wasn’t her real need, was it? She could barely look at Lucy’s kindness without weeping. What was she supposed to do with verses like “For I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength,” or even, “Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus ” ?
    She didn’t know whom to blame for her failure, because she’d certainly spent hours begging God for peace. For strength.
    So that left her where?
    She picked up the cup, blew over the surface. From the living room, she could hear the replay of her show. Elliot always chose the best calls to replay on Sunday nights. She would take notes, sometimes checked into the forum, but not many discussions happened on Sunday.
    Now, she heard her voice as Pride invited her to her wedding.
    â€œOkay, Lauren. I’m so sorry, but I can’t come.”
    â€œWhy