Sing You Home by Jodi Picoult Page A

were always conditions: you had to believe what you were told, in order to get everything you ever wanted. She didn’t like it when religious folks looked down on her for being an atheist; but to be honest, I didn’t see how this was any different from the way she looked down on people for being Christians.
    When Clive shakes my hand, a shock of electricity jumps between us. “I didn’t know we were having guests for dinner,” I say, looking at Reid.
    “The pastor’s not a guest,” Reid replies. “He’s family.”
    “A brother in Christ,” Clive says, smiling.
    I shift from one foot to the other. “Well. I’ll see if Liddy needs some help in the kitchen—”
    “I’ll do that,” Reid interrupts. “Why don’t you stay here with Pastor Clive?”
    That’s when I realize that my drinking—which I thought I’d been so secret and clever about—has not been secret and clever at all. That this dinner is not some friendly meal with a clergyman but a setup.
    Uncomfortable, I sit down where Reid was a moment before. “I don’t know what my brother’s told you,” I begin.
    “Just that he’s been praying for you,” Pastor Clive says. “He asked me to pray for you, too, to find your way.”
    “I think my sense of direction’s pretty good,” I mutter.
    Clive sits forward. “Max,” he asks, “do you have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ?”
    “We’re . . . more like acquaintances.”
    He doesn’t smile. “You know, Max, I never expected to become a pastor.”
    “No?” I say politely.
    “I came from a family that didn’t have two nickels to rub together, and I had five younger brothers and sisters. My dad got laid off when I was twelve, and my mom got sick and was in the hospital. It fell to me to feed the household, and we didn’t have any money in the bank. One day, I went to the local food store and told the cashier that I would pay her back as soon as I could, but the cashier said she couldn’t give me the food in my basket unless I paid. Well, a man behind me—all dressed up in a suit and tie—said he’d take care of my expenses. ‘You need a shopping list, boy,’ he said, and he scribbled something on his business card and set it on one side of the cashier’s scale. Even though it was only a piece of paper, the scale started to sink. Then he took the milk, bread, eggs, cheese, and hamburger out of my cart and stacked them on the other side of the scale. The scale didn’t budge—even though, clearly, all those items should have tipped the balance. With a weight of zero pounds, the cashier had no choice but to give me the food for free—but the man handed her over a twenty-dollar bill, just the same. When I got home, I found the business card in my grocery bag, along with all the food. I took it out to read the list the man had written, but there was no list. On the back of the card it just said, Dear God, please help this boy. On the front was his name: Reverend Billy Graham.”
    “I suppose you’re going to tell me that was a miracle.”
    “Of course not . . . the scale was broken. Grocer had to buy himself a new one,” Clive says. “The miracle part came from the way God broke the scale at just the right moment. The point, Max, is that Jesus has a plan for your life. That’s a funny thing about him: He loves you now, even while you’re sinning. But He also loves you too much to leave you this way.”
    Now I’m starting to get angry. This isn’t my home, granted, but isn’t it a little rude to try to convert someone in his own living room?
    “The only way to please God is to do what He says you have to do,” Pastor Clive continues. “If your job is baking pies at the Nothing-but-Pies Bakery, you don’t go to work and decide to bake cookies. You’ll never get your promotion that way. Even if your cookies are the most delicious ones in the world, they’re still not what your boss wants you to bake.”
    “I don’t bake pies or cookies,” I say. “And with