Apprentice Father

But two weeks later, that future had melted away, as surely and irrevocably as her dissolving fudgesicle.

Rinsing her sticky hands under the sink, her gaze lingered on the fingers of her left hand as a melancholy pang echoed through her. Long, slender and graceful, they looked the same as they always had. They just didn’t work as well.

Yet dwelling on memories of a time when hopes were high and dreams came true was fruitless, she reminded herself. Her life was good now. She had a satisfying career. A loving family. A solid faith that had seen her through some rough stretches. If she didn’t have the one thing she most yearned for—a loving marriage blessed with children—she needed to accept that it wasn’t in God’s plan for her. And she was working on it.

But it wasn’t easy.

Securing the pillow under his head with a firm shove, Clay fought off consciousness—and reality—as long as possible. A week and a half into his new role as surrogate father, he was sinking fast.

The kids had been thrown out of day care on Friday because four-year-old bed wetters weren’t acceptable, so he had to come up with alternative arrangements by tomorrow. And he had a ton of work to do that he hadn’t gotten to last week, thanks to all the changes in his life.

It was not shaping up to a be a good Sunday.

And the sober faces peering at him when he finally pried open his eyes suggested it was only going to get worse. Emily and Josh were already dressed, he noted. In nice clothes.

“It’s Sunday.” The pronouncement came from Emily.

She said that like it was supposed to mean something. And Clay had the distinct impression that it did not include sleeping in.

“I know.” He hoped she wasn’t heading in the direction he suspected.

“Aren’t we going to church?”

His hope dissolved. “Maybe we could skip this week.”

Tears pooled in Emily’s eyes. “Mommy told us once that if she ever went away to be with God, we could talk to her in church on Sunday.”

Clay was sunk. He could hold his own with hard-as-nails, give-no-quarter types. But these two little kids, who together couldn’t weigh much more than sixty pounds, melted his heart. Meaning his Sundays were about to undergo a radical change.

Forty-five minutes later, as he approached the white church with the tall steeple that he passed on the way to work everyday, he hoped the lot would be empty. That way, he could rationalize that he’d tried to take the kids to church.

But no, it was full. And he could hear the muffled sound of organ music. According to the sign in front, the service had begun ten minutes ago.

He was stuck.

Accepting his fate, he helped the children out of the truck, took their hands and headed toward a church for the second time in less than a week. Although he tried to unobtrusively slip into a row near the back, Josh foiled his plan by tripping over the edge of the pew and sprawling in the aisle. Clay was sure every head in the place swiveled their direction as he swooped to pick up the little boy.

After climbing over three sets of feet and squeezing in between a woman with two teenagers and an older couple, all Clay wanted to do was slink out of the church and never come near the place again.

The kids, however, were oblivious to his embarrassment. Emily’s hands lay folded in her lap, and Josh was jiggling his feet, which stuck straight out over the end of the pew. Noting that one of the youngster’s shoes was untied, Clay leaned forward to remedy the situation—and discovered another problem he couldn’t fix. Josh’s socks didn’t match.

Risking a peek at the older woman beside him, he saw her inspecting Josh’s feet. A flush crawled up his neck. The fact that it had never occurred to him to check the kids’ clothes was yet more evidence of how ill-equipped he was for this job.

The woman lifted her head, and Clay braced for disapproval. Instead he saw understanding and compassion in her eyes.

“Kids are a handful, aren’t they?” The whispered comment was accompanied by a smile. “I had four. And I had that same problem on a few occasions.” She inclined her head toward Josh’s feet.

Relief coursed through him. The woman wasn’t judging him. She wasn’t trying to make him feel inadequate. She was being kind. He hadn’t expected that.

“I’m pretty new at this. I have a lot to learn.”

“Don’t we all,” she commiserated with a quiet chuckle before turning her attention back to the sanctuary, where the minister was moving toward the pulpit.

Clay’s tension eased. Most of the Christians he recalled from his childhood had been quick to criticize and censure. But this woman hadn’t done that. Nor had the members of Anne’s congregation. It was a new view of Christianity for Clay.

This minister was also worth listening to. Mid-forties, with flecks of silver in his light brown hair and subtle character lines in his face, he spoke in a down-to-earth style, and his words had practical implications. Though Clay hadn’t picked up a Bible in decades, the passage the pastor referenced near the end of his sermon was vaguely familiar. But he’d never looked at it in quite the way that the minister presented it.

“I’m sure most of you know the story about the fig tree that didn’t bear fruit,” he said. “The frustrated owner planned to cut it down, but the vine dresser entreated him to give the vine one more chance.

“How often in our lives have we, too, wanted one more chance? One more chance to say I love you. To prove our abilities. To do the right thing. One more chance to be the person God intended us to be. Sad to say, those feelings often surface at funerals and on death beds—when it’s too late to change things.”

The minister leaned forward and gripped the pulpit. “My dear friends, God doesn’t want us to have regrets. Like the vine dresser, He offers us countless opportunities to put things right. In fact, each day that He gives us is one more chance—to mend a relationship, to lend a helping hand, to welcome Him into our lives with open hearts and minds. Let us take comfort in knowing He is always there to guide us, to console us, to strengthen us. To give us one more chance.”

As the minister concluded his remarks, Clay looked over at the two children beside him. Was he the one who was supposed to give them the chance the minister had talked about?

It was a daunting thought.

Even more daunting was the thought that came next; maybe they had been brought into his life to give him one more chance, too.

Now that was a scary concept. It reeked too much of commitment. Of long-term responsibility. The very things he’d spent a lifetime trying to avoid. He’d seen how much damage people could inflict on those they claimed to love, and he’d decided long ago that love wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, the demands of his job weren’t conducive to having a family. Nor were they compatible with single parenthood. Surely no one would expect him to change his whole life for two little kids who weren’t even his own. Would they?

Maybe.

The answer came unbidden—and unwanted. Prompted, he supposed, by the lack of other options. For if he sent the kids to live with his father, they would never have the chance to lead a normal life.

Tension began to form behind Clay’s temples. He didn’t normally get headaches. But the last ten days hadn’t been anywhere close to normal. And the organist, who seemed intent on banging his or her way through the final hymn at the highest possible volume, wasn’t helping.

When the last note mercifully died away, Clay leaned down to guide the children out of the pew. As he did so, the older woman touched his arm.

“They’re darling children. So well behaved. Good luck with them.”

Clay acknowledged the woman’s encouraging words with a nod. But they didn’t begin to solve his child care problem.

As they inched toward the exit, the children’s hands tucked in his, it occurred to Clay that the woman might have some suggestions on child care. His step faltered and he turned to scan the crowd, but she’d already disappeared. Too bad. He could have used one more chance with her, he mused, recalling the minister’s sermon.

The minister.

Perhaps the preacher might know of someone who could help with the children, Clay speculated. Clergy often had a network of social service resources. Plus, a minister would only recommend someone trustworthy and above reproach. That meant Clay wouldn’t have to worry about checking references. It was worth trying, anyway.

Because he was out of options.

And he was running out of time.

Chapter Two

As he left the church, Clay spotted the pastor greeting members of the congregation. He stepped aside to wait until the man was free, watching as Emily dug in her pocket and withdrew a plastic bag of cereal.

“I brought these for Josh.” She gave him an uncertain look. “Mommy always put some cereal in her purse for him in case he got hungry at church.”