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

it,” Warren said. “This is not so bad.”
    “No,” Jack said. “It’s great.” He thought for a moment about his father and their ride in to work, and he felt a sudden warmth that had nothing to do with the sunlight. “Great indeed,” he said.
    “Van’s in Austin.” Warren rocked as he spoke. “The ledge is in session.” Jack needed a moment to place the word “ledge.” Van had been elected a state senator, and every two years, he had tospend a substantial amount of time in Austin where the legislature met to hammer out bills.
    “I thought he’d be home today,” Jack said. “Surely the ledge doesn’t meet on weekends.”
    Warren seemed to flush a little. He shifted uncomfortably.
    “I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I say something wrong?”
    “We think—we think Van has gone and got himself a pretty young thing in Austin,” Warren said, and now it was the full-blown blush only a pale German complexion can offer.
    “What about Candace—” Jack began, scandalized, and he stopped.
    He had no right to talk. None at all.
    They rocked for a bit in silence, Warren still beet-red with anger or sadness or embarrassment. They took a drink, then another.
    “It is a sad thing,” Jack offered at last, “when your private shame becomes a public scandal.”
    Warren nodded.
    Maybe this is a universal truth. Maybe everyone has something they’re ashamed of. Some family scandal, some personal failing.
    Of course it is
, he thought.
We’re all broken. We’re all fallen.
    “We have got to do better,” he murmured automatically. It sounded odd.
    “What?” Warren asked. He set his beer next to the rocker with a clink.
    “Nothing,” Jack said. He drained his Shiner, thanked Warren, and got to his feet.
    “Jack, you’re still a man of God, right?” Warren asked as they walked to the truck.
    Jack paused to think about that. He shook his head. “Warren,” he said, “at this moment, I’m not really even sure what species I am.”
    “No,” Warren said. “I watched you preach. A thousand people must have been there.”
    “Ten thousand,” Jack corrected. “Sorry. Not that it matters.”
    “Well,” Warren said. “Would you pray for Van?”
    “What would you want me to pray?” Jack said, not committing himself.
    “To do better?” Warren asked. He stopped, considered what he might say. “He’s really hurting his family.” He looked up at Jack. “He’s hurting all of us.”
    “I can pray about that,” Jack said. He nodded to himself. “I will pray about that.” He climbed into the truck, looked at Warren. “Can you do the hard thing? Can you go on loving him, even while he’s hurting you? That’s really important.”
    Warren blinked once or twice. Then, slowly, he nodded. “You can’t just stop,” he said. “Can you?”
    “I don’t see how you can,” Jack said. “Not if other people go on loving us even when we disappoint them.” He started the truck. “Not if God goes on loving us.”
    They each raised a hand, a Texas wave, good for all occasions.
    “I’ll see you,” he said.
    “Auf wiedersehen,”
Warren said. “I’ll tell Van you asked after him.”
    “You do that,” Jack said. He drove back into town and loaded the truck with Mrs. Calhoun’s shingles. They weighed in at about eighty pounds per bundle, and Jack actually had to stop, drink a Dr Pepper, and catch his breath again midway. He was totallyout of shape for this kind of work. It had seemed so easy when he was twenty. He was too old for this.
    He wondered how on earth his father had been managing these past few years.
    “Dad,” he called, sticking his head into the store.
    “I’m with a customer,” his father called back, not unkindly.
    Jack loaded up the last bundles of shingles and the rolls of felt and then went back into the store ten minutes later. “I’m going out with this last delivery,” he said as his father rang up dozens of D batteries for Shirley Martin, the high-school music