The revelation startled him. He was afraid, not had been afraid. Was his faith so paper-thin that he’d just been going through the motions all these years? God, I hope not…I-I’m so sorry. No wonder Jesus had stopped speaking to him. He’d never let God in—not completely. Instead, he’d clung to his mother’s memory as if it were the life preserver, and the pain and anger he harbored at her abandonment had fueled his direction—away from one unyielding father and towards a loving Heavenly One, or so James had thought. In reality, he’d drifted from both.

Had James’s father sunken into that abyss, too? Did he believe God had taken his wife? It was a common belief amongst those who grieved that a loving God wouldn’t tear lives asunder, and therefore, God must not be loving. James thought back on the times when his mother was alive, thought about the father he’d known then. Glen Moore had always been a reserved sort, but he’d smiled often when his vivacious wife goaded him into having fun. And he’d been a proud father, present at all the events James and Mary had participated in, often leaving his work early to be there. James remembered his father sometimes driving that tractor through a field at night in order to finish what he’d interrupted.

He started to look across the table at his dad but decided to avoid eye contact. The old man might sense James’s inner turmoil, and that wouldn’t make for appetizing dinner conversation. He was certain his father’s silence was a prelude to anger. The old man had withdrawn rarely while his mother was alive, but when he had, only Mom had been able to cajole him into a better mood. James had no idea how she did it. His father would light up, his smile would tilt, and he’d be laughing in no time when his wife teased him. James didn’t see himself accomplishing that any time soon.

Instead, he rested his gaze on Abigail. His seven-year-old niece was the only one at the table who seemed to be enjoying her food…but even she was quiet. Most little girls her age would be talking about princesses. He knew this because about half of his congregation’s little darlings did just that. For heaven’s sake, where was Abigail’s tiara? Didn’t most little girls wear them to the table?

Was it this stiff and cold even when James wasn’t home?

He didn’t think so.

Sucking in a bracing breath, he lifted his gaze to the man sitting across the table. Deep, sad lines scored his father’s face. Rivulets of disappointment and days spent farming in the unforgiving sun. Emotion balled in James’s gut as he studied his father’s leathery skin. He ached to see the pride and love shining in Glen Moore’s eyes as it had so many years past. Moments ago, James had wanted to avoid eye contact, now he willed his father to look up, erase the distance.

But more than four feet of table separated them.