barely been a part of their lives. Vi hardly remembers him. So how can you entrust these kids to him just because they’re related?”
Any and all patience had completely disappeared from Carmen’s demeanor. “You say ‘related’ as if he’s some distant uncle. He’s their father. And unless there’s some substantial reason he’s not fit to care for them or chooses not to . . .” She shook her head. “We just won’t know anything for sure until I speak with him. But you need to prepare yourself.”
This wasn’t just alarm now throbbing through her. It was full-on panic. “You don’t understand. I . . . you can’t . . .”
“Jenessa, how you react to this is going to set the tone for how the children react. If you want to help them through this, stay calm. Stay encouraging.”
Stay calm? When three kids she adored—she loved—would likely be ripped from her care by the end of the week? “You just can’t—”
“We have to.”
She searched for another argument, grappled for something, anything to refute Carmen’s words. But she’d known this day was coming. She’d known.
The sound of something crashing into glass shattered the silence. Jenessa jumped up from her chair, her gaze bolting to the French doors. A crack splintered one of its square panes.
Colie stood on the other side.
She’d thrown something. She’d heard. How much?
Jenessa raced to the door, but Colie was already running away, her bellowing voice echoing behind her. “We’re not going. I don’t care what you say, we’re not going!”
Lucas had gone to church because he hadn’t known what else to do.
He’d lugged Noah along because, well, it just seemed like it might be better for neither of them to be on the property while the social worker was at the house.
But as he sat in a middle row, mindlessly doodling on the bulletin an usher had handed him when he walked in, he could barely stop himself from pulling his phone from his pocket for the tenth time. Carmen couldn’t still be at the house, could she?
“You’re not setting a very good example, man,” Noah whispered beside him.
Frankly, he was surprised Noah was even here. He’d assumed Noah would argue about accompanying him, but he’d been unexpectedly willing to come along.
“If coming to church is your way of making up for spending the night at Jen’s, you should at least be paying attention to the sermon.”
“Can it, Johannson. And I have nothing to make up for.” Except, well, probably years of holding God at arm’s length.
Hiding—that’s what he’d been doing. Just as shame had kept him at a distance from the people he loved, he’d let it slowly lay brick after brick on the wall between him and the God he’d once sought wholeheartedly.
But Jen, in her acceptance of him, had closed that gap with such beautiful intention. If she could see not just past his dishonor, but through it, to the man he hoped he really was, how much more could God see? Accept? Love?
It’d started, though, with Lucas making the decision to be honest with Jen. To put his wounds and weaknesses on uncomfortable display, come what may. Could he do the same with God? Could he stop hiding?
He ignored Noah’s still-smug expression next to him. Left his phone in his pocket. Bowed his head for the closing prayer.
I’m ready to try again, God. I don’t really know where to go from here, but . . .
But he was willing to try again. To come out from under the shadow of his shame and into the sunlight.
He lifted his head as the pastor finished his prayer, surprised, soothed, grateful for the tiniest of steps forward.
“So, what now?” Noah turned to him as people started filing from the sanctuary at the close of the service.
Should they risk going back to the house? What if Carmen was still there? That couldn’t signal anything good.
“Luke.”
He glanced over to see Sam moving toward them. “Hey. Didn’t realize you were here.”
“Got here late. Sat in back. Jen stayed home?”
Sam was just observant enough that if Lucas mentioned Carmen’s surprise arrival this morning, he’d most likely jump to the quick and accurate conclusion that Lucas had been at the house all night. Probably best to stay vague. “Uh, yeah, she had a late night. A busy night. With sick kids.” He’d just leave it at that. No need to tell Sam about those ten or fifteen minutes after midnight. He’d keep that favorite part of yesterday—er, well, today—to himself.
Or maybe not.