The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story by Brennan Manning, Greg Garrett

in December,” Jack said. “Gotta love it.” The temperature was in the fifties, but slated to climb into the seventies that afternoon.
    His father grunted. “Got to love that we’re not in Amarillo or Lubbock,” he corrected. “Those parts of Texas get plenty of hard weather.”
    “Still,” Jack said, “I’ll be able to roll the windows down this afternoon.” He sighed. “How great is that?”
    His father actually seemed to pause and consider the question. At the stoplight, unaccountably red with no other vehicles in sight in any direction, he nodded.
    “It is great indeed,” he said. “Great indeed.”
    Jack thought that his father must be developing a true appreciation for the little things. And why not? He was losing all the little things as well as all the big things. Who could say what you ultimately miss more?
    Jack started work that morning by beginning to load the store’s pickup with the Saturday morning deliveries. Today it looked like a mixed bag of lumber, two dozen fifty-pound bags of fast-setting concrete—pretty much their whole stock—and a roof’s worth of brown three-tab shingles. Too much for one trip, for sure. It’d more likely be three or four.
    He saw that Mrs. Calhoun was getting the shingles and nails. Someone must be putting on that new roof for her. Three hammers.
Thank God for nail guns
, he thought. He wouldn’t want to be doing roofs no matter the time of year. It was backbreaking work.
    First, he hauled a delivery out the river road to the Marquettes, a family he knew but not well. They had moved to Mayfield after he graduated high school. Tom said they were members of the church—and like most members, no longer attended much. They had a sign in front of their house, next to a small American flag, that read: God loves you. Always has. Always will.
    Mr. Marquette came out to meet him when he pulled into the driveway. He was a big, hearty type in his fifties. “John Marquette,” he said, offering a hand. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
    “Jack.” They shook.
    “Building a doghouse,” John explained, as Jack began to pull boards from the bed.
    John Marquette was not one to stand around and watch. Together they pulled and stacked the lumber, and he stood watching as Jack checked it against the manifest, then handed John the clipboard for a signature.
    “I need to pay you now?” Mr. Marquette asked as he scribbled.
    “It’ll go on your account,” Jack said. He shook John’s hand. “Let us know if we can help you with anything else.”
    John Marquette smiled. “Welcome home, Jack,” he said.
    “Thanks.” In the truck on the way back to the store, Jack wondered if there was anybody in the county who didn’t know that he was back.
    It was midmorning by the time Jack drove the second load, sacks of dry concrete, out to the Koenig Ranch, twelve miles west of town. The last two miles were on gravel roads, which were overhung by oak and pecan trees. White dust billowed up behind him as he drove, and goats nibbled at the rocky soil on both sides of the road.
    Warren Koenig, the youngest brother, was on the front porch of the big house sipping coffee. He scrambled out of his rocking chair and to the circle drive as Jack pulled in. Jack had played football and basketball with Warren’s older brother Van, but Warren was four years behind them in school. He’d mostly been a noisome tagalong kid, cheering from the bleachers, watching practices. Jack wondered how the years might have changed him.
    “Hey, Warren,” Jack called as he got out of the truck.
    “Jack,” Warren said, stepping over to shake his hand with both of his. He was still on the small side, the youngest and the shortest of the brothers. “Good to see you. When’d you get in?”
    “Early in the week,” Jack said. “How’re things?”
    “We’re building a new fence this week,” Warren said.
“Lieber Gott!”
Warren was third-generation German-American, but some German apparently had stuck.