The Land Beneath Us (Sunrise at Normandy #3) - Sarah Sundin Page 0,61

thought the parable was spoken to lost sinners, letting them know the Father wanted to welcome them home. And sure, the parable did say that.

The first three verses stung, but he read them out loud, needing to hear them. “‘Then drew near unto him all the publicans and sinners for to hear him. And the Pharisees and scribes murmured, saying, This man receiveth sinners, and eateth with them. And he spake this parable unto them.’”

Unto the Pharisees. Not unto the sinners, and Clay’s head sagged back.

The Pharisees grumbled about Jesus welcoming sinners. The elder brother grumbled about the father welcoming the Prodigal. And Clay grumbled about Daddy and Mama welcoming Wyatt and Adler.

“I’m the elder brother.” The wind riffled the tiny pages, and Clay read the whole story—the last four verses twice, his voice as rough as the ground beneath his knees.

“‘And he answering said to his father, Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment: and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends: But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf. And he said unto him, Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.’”

Clay’s hands coiled around leather and brass and wafer-thin paper, and shame bowed his head low. “Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine.”

As miserable as those last years in Kerrville had been, he’d always had his parents’ company and wisdom. He’d enjoyed Mama’s chili and Daddy’s jokes.

Wyatt and Adler might have flourished out in the world, but they’d done so alone.

Daddy and Mama were right to rejoice that their son had returned, repentant and grieving.

For so many years, Clay had seen himself as wronged. Now he was just plain wrong.

“Lord, forgive me.” He returned to the Scripture. The parable ended there. Did the elder brother continue to grumble? Did the Pharisees? Or did they see the wonder of the Father’s mercy and join in the celebration?

He gripped the Bible hard, willing the truth to transform his brittle heart. “I want to, Lord. I want to forgive. I need to forgive.”

29

TULLAHOMA

TUESDAY, APRIL 25, 1944

Rita Sue fingered the bouquet of pink carnations on Leah’s hospital bedside table. “That baby gets prettier every day. Boy, do I see your husband in her.” She gave Leah a wink.

“Me too.” Sitting up in bed, Leah glanced at the clock. Two long hours until the nurse would bring the baby for her next feeding.

“I need to go home and make dinner.” Rita Sue tucked her purse under her arm. “You’re coming home tomorrow, aren’t you, sugar?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll bring the truck. The kids can’t wait to meet the baby. But, sugar? She needs a nickname. Helen’s too grown-up for that little dumpling.”

Leah smiled. Helen was the perfect name. As small as she was, Helen exuded light and dignity.

After Rita Sue left, Leah slid her feet into her slippers. It felt good to walk around the maternity ward after five days lying in bed and another five sitting in bed.

Leah picked up Clay’s V-mail—tiny but so quickly delivered. She padded to the window, her white cotton nightgown brushing her ankles. Only one other mother was in the ward, fast asleep.

The V-mail had arrived that afternoon, and Leah had read it twice. Mr. and Mrs. Paxton had told her about Wyatt when the hospital let her make a long-distance call to Texas. Now Clay knew too, and he’d poured out his heart to her about acting like the Prodigal’s elder brother.

In the afternoon sunlight, Leah squinted at Clay’s handwriting. His letter had been written on a special V-mail form and photographed in England, then the microfilm had been shipped overseas and the letter reprinted in miniature in the US.

For the past three years, I’ve sat on a seesaw in the up position. I’ve taken satisfaction in my perch, high in the knowledge of my righteousness and looking down on my brothers’ wickedness.

Full forgiveness would level that beam, and I admit, that’s why I’ve resisted.

Now I see how wrong I’ve been.

My lack of forgiveness only heaps sin onto my side of the beam, leveling the balance whether I like it or not. Now Wyatt and Adler