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

fire hose,” Danny offered, and it sounded like he, too, was chuckling a little. All of those had been the comparisons Jack had made when Danny asked what it was like to be the Number One in a big church.
    “I haven’t been online to look,” Jack said. “I’ve been afraid to find out what’s happening, I guess. Are you bringing in an interim?”
    “Jack,” Danny said, and even without seeing him he knew he was shaking his head. “Who would they bring in? Billy Graham? The pope? No, they’re calling me acting lead pastor, we’ve brought in some administrative help, and we’re trying to figure out what to do next.”
    “Wow,” Jack said. He paused for a moment with a thought he could not let go of but was afraid to verbalize. “I don’t guess anybody’s said anything about me coming back.”
    “Some things have been said,” Danny admitted. “But nobody knew where you were. If you were ready to …” His voice trailed off.
    “Yeah,” Jack said. “I don’t know myself where I am. Or what I’m ready to do.” He pushed himself off the wall, started pacing across the lumberyard. “I miss it. I miss everyone. But I miss my family most of all.”
    “I wish I could help you, man,” Danny said. Both men were silent, and then Danny said, as though he’d made up his mind about something, “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Scout’s honor.”
    Both of them had been Eagle Scouts; it was not an idle promise.
    It was a solemn oath.
    “Danny, if you need anything—any help, whatever—you call me.” He stopped pacing. “I’m not so busy with my lumber that I can’t talk.” He smiled sadly. “Really. I’ll help you out any way I can.”
    “Are you preaching?” Danny asked. “You should be preaching.” He stopped, caught himself. “I mean, if you’re right with God.”
    Jack shook his head. “Really. You think I should be preaching?” Jack said. “No. Don’t answer that. No way. I’m done with that.” It was chilly out here without his coat. “Anyway. Thanks for calling. Thanks.”
    It was quiet on the other line, and for a second, Jack wonderedif they were still connected. Then, spoken softly, the words, “You’re not going to sue the church?”
    That hurt his heart. “No,” he said. He shook his head. What made Martin Fox or anyone else think he would destroy the thing he’d built?
    Maybe that he’d done what he did without thinking what it might do to all the things he’d built?
    He shook his head again. If he wasn’t sure who he was these days, should he be surprised that nobody else knew?
    “No, Danny,” Jack said in a low voice. “I’m not. Scout’s honor.”
    He hung up and walked back inside. His sister had left, but Tom was settled on his stool behind the cash register, reading what looked like an ancient
Reader’s Digest.
He used to buy them at garage sales, maybe he still did. At the register were also recent issues of
People
and
Us.
Jack’s mom used to read them, and he suspected that his father kept subscribing to them—and maybe even read them in slow times—to keep that connection.
    Tom looked up as the door opened, then commenced to reading again as Jack walked across the store to reclaim his clipboard. Behind him in one of the aisles he could hear Manny sweeping; he was always around, though rarely seen these days.
    “Did you know Napoleon was poisoned?” Tom said without looking up.
    “Is that the most current hypothesis?”
    Tom smiled, closed the magazine, checked the date. “It was as of the early 1980s,” he said.
    “A lot has changed since the eighties,” Jack said. He stood for a moment, looking for the right words. “Listen,” he said. “I was on the phone with Danny. Danny Pierce. From Seattle?”
    “Oh?” his father said without looking up.
    Where to start? With the most immediate. “He said you’d been trying to find Tracy.”
    “About time he called you back.”
    “Have you been asking him about Tracy? About where they