Once Was Lost Read Online Free PDF

there for all of the miracles. There at the water/ wine wedding. There at the baptism. On the hillside when he stretched a small lunch into a meal for five thousand. Growing up with those stories all around you all the time, you sort of buy in. You can’t help yourself.
    Now I think miracles are things that happen in stained glass, and on dusty Jerusalem roads thousands of years ago. Not here, not to us. Not when we need them.
    In the car Dad pulls off his tie and strips down to his soaked undershirt. A half mile down the road, he says, “I know you’re mad.”
    “You were going to tell.”
    “The timing didn’t feel right.”
    I don’t want to argue with him. All I want is to get home and eat something and have a cold drink and watch TV. If it works. I turn on the radio and find my favorite country station. “Did you fix my ceiling fan yet?”
    “No. Sam…”
    “It’s okay.”
    “I’m sorry.” He takes my hand, stilling my fingers. “And I don’t mean about the ceiling fan.”
    For a second, I’m tempted to turn my hand over and let our palms meet, a small act of acknowledgment. Instead, I free it and hold it in front of the dashboard vent.
    When I realize where the car is headed, I look at him. “Dad. Seriously?”
    “It’s the first Sunday of the month.”
    First Sundays mean brunch at the Lodge. Sometimes with Vanessa’s family, sometimes with other people from church, sometimes just us. Once in a while we go even if it isn’t the first Sunday. Exactly one month ago we went with Mom. She ordered a Bloody Mary, and then another, and then one more. Three drinks do not make Mom drunk. Three drinks keep her functioning, but Dad put his foot down about her drinking before church and maybe someone catching a whiff, so usually by the time church is done she’s not doing so great. The servers at the Lodge know when they bring my mom a Bloody Mary to put it in a regular glass without a giant stalk of celery sticking out, and for all anyone knows she just really likes tomato juice.
    “We’re going to join Daniel’s family today,” Dad continues. “They invited us and I thought you’d enjoy that.”
    If I’m going to have to talk to anyone, it might as well be the Mackenzies, even if Daniel’s dad can be a little bit loud. At least I know there won’t be any lulls in the conversation. And I haven’t spent much time with Daniel all summer, since he’s been busy with summer school and I’ve been busy not spending much time with anyone.
    The Lodge is this log-cabin-ish building on the edge of town, off a two-lane state road and up a winding dirt drive. It’s kind of nestled up against the foothills and is the only place around here to go if you’re having a special occasion: birthday, anniversary, graduation, stuff like that. It’s also the only place open on Sundays, so people from all seven churches crowd into both floors of the restaurant and spill out onto the deck, which has plenty of shade and is rigged up with misters all around to keep it cool. That’s where Daniel and his parents are sitting when we get there—at a table near the north corner of the deck. They wave us over.
    As we walk to their table, people greet us. Well, they greet my dad. “Pastor Charlie,” they call out, “enjoyed the sermon!” “Pastor Charlie! The new landscaping at the church building looks terrific!” “Pastor Charlie, are you here to poach my congregants again?” That last one comes from Pastor Egan of the Methodist church, and he says that every single time we see him. Every time. He’s about seventy years old, and that’s probably average for the other churches here. Pineview is the kind of town pastors come to when they want to retire but also want to still feel useful and make a little money. They pack up their empty nests (meaning: no other pastor’s kids like me) and bring them here, so they can lead a rural church into its final years. That’s what makes my dad and our church