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in front of the altar, in his black suit and white clerical collar for the traditional service and with his dark curly hair gelled into TV-ready status for the later services. We’d missed the entire processional and likely the opening prayer.
    My mom waved me forward, the urgency clear in her eyes.
    There is no “sneaking” anywhere when you’re the pastor’s family, especially when the pew designated as yours is two from the front.
    Avoiding the sight of that pew, one that would still feel empty even once the three of us were sitting in it, I joined my mother and Sarah at the door to the sanctuary. As soon as the usher pulled the door open, my dad’s voice, jovial and warm, poured out.
    â€œ. . . will be meeting at seven o’clock in the library on Tuesday. Refreshments will be provided. Charles Shaw has promised there will be cookies this time. No more fruitcake leftovers!”
    There was an appreciative titter from the congregation.
    The timing wasn’t going to get any better for us to barge in.
    My mom crossed the threshold, from the tile of the narthex to the carpeted sanctuary aisle, her shoulders straight and her smile firmly affixed, guiding Sarah in front of her.
    I followed reluctantly.
    The sanctuary was an enormous open space, filled with bright light that poured in through stained glass set high in the brick walls. Three columns of dark wooden pews with red velvet cushions lined the room. And on either side of the altar, there were more pews in the transepts.
    Banners hung on stands at intervals in both side aisles, including the one we walked down. Most of them were a garish gold and purple for Lent. I’d missed all of Epiphany.
    An ornate cross in gold was bolted to the back wall, dominating the space behind the altar.
    I couldn’t remember a time when I wasn’t in this building almost every day. First when my grandpa was pastor, then my dad. We belonged here, even when that belonging felt more claustrophobic than comforting.
    But today, the sanctuary felt strangely fake, like a set in the movie of my life. It was a perfect reproduction and yet was missing something essential at the core.
    Despair spiraled through me.
    The whispers started in the back rows and moved forward as I limped in behind my mom and Sarah.
    With every step, it grew harder to breathe. I couldn’t hear what they were saying about me, but I could imagine. His fault. Got his brother killed. Reckless, irresponsible behavior. At a party with drinking!
    â€œNext week, we’ll have an update on our youth mission trip to Guatemala,” my dad continued, his smooth patter unfailing, despite the disruption we were causing. “And in two weeks, the senior high youth group will be gathering for pizza and prayer in the auditorium. Please see Kathy or Keith to register.”
    We were halfway down the aisle when someone close to me at the end of a pew whispered, “God bless you.”
    I stiffened, almost stumbling in surprise.
    It spread from there. “Welcome back.” “So good to see you.” “We’re so sorry about Eli.” “We’ve been praying for you.” All voiced in hushed tones so as not to interrupt my dad, who continued to read through the announcements.
    At the front of the church, in a pew behind ours, a head turned to stare.
    Leah, Eli’s girlfriend. Her gaze was fixed on me. Shewas pale and visibly trembling, but that wasn’t the worst part.
    The expression on her face was a mix of wrenching grief, raw pain, and the tiniest portion of terrible hope.
    I knew that look. I’d witnessed it on the faces of my family, especially in the first few days after the accident. Eli and I were twins. Seeing me was like seeing Eli, only not. I was an inescapable reminder of what they’d lost, a truckload of salt rubbed into an open and bleeding wound.
    As I watched, Leah’s eyes rolled back into her head, and she slumped