she would have to endure the sermon. She’d better enjoy the singing while she could.
She looked to her right. Her father’s head was bowed, and his lips were moving. Probably praying for her.
He needn’t bother. I’m a hopeless cause.
Leaning forward, she glanced toward Elena and Wyatt. Her sister wasn’t singing either, but rather than a bowed head, her face was turned upward. For some inexplicable reason, the expression
Elena wore — wistful, supplicating, something — made Roxy’s heart ache.
Then there was Wyatt. So like the man she once knew and loved, yet so different. She remembered the day he told her he’d been born again. She remembered how angry his words made her. But look at him now. He had a . . . what? Serenity? Centered- ness? She couldn’t say for certain. She only knew he had something — something she didn’t have. Hadn’t ever had. She saw it on his face.
Sensed it in the way he stood, in the sound of his voice, in the way he looked at her and others.
She was thankful for the pastor’s call to prayer, for it drew her attention away from Wyatt. She didn’t want to think about him. It was too confusing.
She would think about tomorrow instead. Tomorrow she would begin her new job. Not that working in the family firm was what she wanted to do for good, but the sooner she earned her own way, the sooner she could get a place of her own. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel like a failure.
Lost in thought, Roxy was aware of her father opening his Bible and placing it on his lap. She knew the pastor spoke, but she didn’t listen. Not at first. She wasn’t sure when she tuned into the sermon. Perhaps it was after she heard him say the word prodigal . Any kid who ever went to Sunday school had heard of the Prodigal Son. Including Roxy Burke.
The pastor looked at the book in his hand and read from it: “ ‘Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living. After he had spent everything, there was a severe famine . . .’ ”
Roxy swallowed hard. It felt as if the pastor were reading her story, not some ancient parable. The inheritance. The wild living. Poverty. Famine. Not a friend left in the world.
A little over a week ago, Roxy was retching over a toilet, her stomach empty. She didn’t walk home, as the prodigal had. She borrowed money from Pete so she could take the bus. Not much difference. And now, again like the son in the ancient story, she was about to take a job in the old man’s empire. Her father, like the prodigal’s, had welcomed her home with open arms, forgiveness, celebration, and love.
The way God welcomes you. The way God loves you.
She couldn’t breathe. It was too stuffy in here. If she didn’t get some air soon —
She stood, whispered something to her father about the rest- room, and made her way out of the row and down the aisle toward the exit. She kept her eyes on the carpet a few feet in front of her, forcing herself not to run, though every fiber of her being screamed for her to do so.
Once out of the sanctuary, she didn’t stop in the large entry hall. She hurried right on through it and out the front doors into the glorious April sunshine. Gulping air into her lungs, she crossed the parking lot to the large grassy field beyond it.
Finally, she stopped, drew another deep breath, and turned around to stare at the church building. What just happened?
She didn’t know. But whatever it was, it creeped her out, and she wasn’t about to go back inside. Not for any amount of guilt.
=
The way Roxy hurried out of the sanctuary, Elena knew she must have recognized herself in the story of the Prodigal Son. She would have to be an idiot to miss the similarities. Was she the least bit sur- prised by the way their father welcomed her when she came drag- ging home? He hadn’t uttered a word of condemnation or censure.
But was she grateful? Or did she simply consider it her
She looked to her right. Her father’s head was bowed, and his lips were moving. Probably praying for her.
He needn’t bother. I’m a hopeless cause.
Leaning forward, she glanced toward Elena and Wyatt. Her sister wasn’t singing either, but rather than a bowed head, her face was turned upward. For some inexplicable reason, the expression
Elena wore — wistful, supplicating, something — made Roxy’s heart ache.
Then there was Wyatt. So like the man she once knew and loved, yet so different. She remembered the day he told her he’d been born again. She remembered how angry his words made her. But look at him now. He had a . . . what? Serenity? Centered- ness? She couldn’t say for certain. She only knew he had something — something she didn’t have. Hadn’t ever had. She saw it on his face.
Sensed it in the way he stood, in the sound of his voice, in the way he looked at her and others.
She was thankful for the pastor’s call to prayer, for it drew her attention away from Wyatt. She didn’t want to think about him. It was too confusing.
She would think about tomorrow instead. Tomorrow she would begin her new job. Not that working in the family firm was what she wanted to do for good, but the sooner she earned her own way, the sooner she could get a place of her own. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel like a failure.
Lost in thought, Roxy was aware of her father opening his Bible and placing it on his lap. She knew the pastor spoke, but she didn’t listen. Not at first. She wasn’t sure when she tuned into the sermon. Perhaps it was after she heard him say the word prodigal . Any kid who ever went to Sunday school had heard of the Prodigal Son. Including Roxy Burke.
The pastor looked at the book in his hand and read from it: “ ‘Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living. After he had spent everything, there was a severe famine . . .’ ”
Roxy swallowed hard. It felt as if the pastor were reading her story, not some ancient parable. The inheritance. The wild living. Poverty. Famine. Not a friend left in the world.
A little over a week ago, Roxy was retching over a toilet, her stomach empty. She didn’t walk home, as the prodigal had. She borrowed money from Pete so she could take the bus. Not much difference. And now, again like the son in the ancient story, she was about to take a job in the old man’s empire. Her father, like the prodigal’s, had welcomed her home with open arms, forgiveness, celebration, and love.
The way God welcomes you. The way God loves you.
She couldn’t breathe. It was too stuffy in here. If she didn’t get some air soon —
She stood, whispered something to her father about the rest- room, and made her way out of the row and down the aisle toward the exit. She kept her eyes on the carpet a few feet in front of her, forcing herself not to run, though every fiber of her being screamed for her to do so.
Once out of the sanctuary, she didn’t stop in the large entry hall. She hurried right on through it and out the front doors into the glorious April sunshine. Gulping air into her lungs, she crossed the parking lot to the large grassy field beyond it.
Finally, she stopped, drew another deep breath, and turned around to stare at the church building. What just happened?
She didn’t know. But whatever it was, it creeped her out, and she wasn’t about to go back inside. Not for any amount of guilt.
=
The way Roxy hurried out of the sanctuary, Elena knew she must have recognized herself in the story of the Prodigal Son. She would have to be an idiot to miss the similarities. Was she the least bit sur- prised by the way their father welcomed her when she came drag- ging home? He hadn’t uttered a word of condemnation or censure.
But was she grateful? Or did she simply consider it her
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