2010

The man sat picking desultory scraps of hay from the matted hairs on his forearm.  He stretched, yawning, and was struck by the fetid stench of his own breath. The crow of a rooster had awakened him, and his eyes squinted involuntarily against the bright rays of the early morning sun streaming in through the loosened, rotting boards of the old barn which he had called home for the past few days.  "Hungry."  His first thought in the morning; the constant of his day; the aching reality of his life as he lay down, head on meager backpack, each lonely, desolate night. Trapped by the consequences of his own choices, he had stumbled into middle age, a miserable failure.  Had the farmer not allowed him to feed the pigs and sleep in the barn, the man would have had no shelter to shield him from the chilly nights. 

Once a day, the farmer would deliver a large basket of scraps from his table, and the man picked through them to find any edible orts to satisfy the rumbling chasm that swirled and sucked his life from him, leaving his body emaciated and his soul unsettled.  He had walked the streets of the city for months, begging for food or coins; however, the patience and generosity of the passers-by had grown thin and no one took notice of him there anymore except for disdaining his rancid presence as he loitered in the roadway.  And, rightly so. Lice fell from his shoulder-length hair onto the collar of his ragged striped tunic, and the putrid odor of his unwashed flesh heralded his approach from many steps away.  Beneath his overgrown beard were sores, picked and itching, pocketing pus that dried into yellow beads upon his whiskers when he scratched them with his ragged fingernails.  The man, once young and rich, was now anathema. How had he come to this?

The man's father had let him go, unwilling to bind a son to him who wished his father dead.  The child did not want the father's business nor the father's oversight.  He just wanted out - out into the world to live as he pleased.  Wanted his share of the father's fortune now. Did not want to wait for the father to die. Love cannot be coerced, so the father watched his beloved child walk away.

There was another son. An older one who had stayed. Done the right thing. Always. Never complained. Worked hard. Took up the slack. Slaved in the fields to keep the family business running in order to guard his own inheritance from ruin.  He prided himself on being the "good" one; the one who could be counted upon to always do the right thing.  But, there was no joy in it, especially since his brother had made his work load twice as burdensome.  His brother! Lying with prostitutes! Stuffing himself with rich foods! Drinking himself into a stupor! Throwing his money around and his life away!  He would never do that!

But a stream flowed deeply within this older brother,stagnating with resentment and jealousy; for, he was bound to his father's house while his younger brother was free to do whatever he pleased.  Inequity bred contempt and the older brother smoldered with it as he plowed his father's fields and fed his father's herds, all the while conjuring in his mind the pleasures in which his brother indulged himself.

Perhaps it took his leaving in rebellion and abject deprivation of respect and compassion for the younger son to realize his need of his father's love.  In his youth he had despised the many parameters of his life and had viewed his father as embarrassingly out of touch with the world that existed beyond the borders of their mundane existence. Life on his own terms had proven expensive - left his pockets and his soul empty and sullied.  Penniless and miserable, having wasted a fortune and the best years of his life, the wayward son became homesick.  On this particular morning,  the daydream of going home became an urgent need.  Sitting on a log with his feet in the mud and slop of the sty next to which he slept, watching the lazy sow roll contentedly in the residue of her own feces and the offal of her pen, the young man came to his senses. He saw himself as he was; knew what he had become in a way he had not fathomed before.  And all he could think of was home. His father. Food. A bed. And, perhaps, forgiveness.  Maybe his father would hire him to work the fields - would not turn him away. This younger son began at that moment to form a speech to his dad. "Father, I have sinned against you and against heaven. I have done all the wrong things. I know I am not worthy to be called your son anymore, but would you consider hiring me to work, to serve you?"

With this resolve and the hope of home, the man left behind the detritus of the life he had so craved. It was a long journey back, and with each passing mile came deep doubts about his ability to make it and an even deeper resolve to try. With each footstep he practiced his "repentance" speech.  It had been many years since he had seen or spoken to his elderly father - many years since he had even thought of him. "Father, I have sinned against you..."  The words became the rhythym of his journey.

Ever waiting. Ever hoping. At dawn and at sunset, the father daily walked the path leading from his palatial home to the main road, the aching for his wayward son driving him to search the horizon for his boy's familiar gait. Love drove the father.  Hope kept the love ever aflame.  As the sun disappeared on the horizon and the sky burst with golden orange brilliance before giving way to starlight, the father would bow his head and turn toward home and vow to stand sentinel anew at dawn.

It was in the late afternoon that the son neared home.  From his stance on a distant hill, the man looked out over the landscape and his eyes drank in the emerald green fields now deepening in color with the setting sun. Flocks dotted the leas, making them look like a piece of mottled cloth that stretched out for miles. He had stopped for a minute, and he set down his backpack.  With both hands he tried to comb through the tangled mess of dark curly hair that moved gently on his head in the light evening breeze.  He brushed the lice and dandruff from his tattered cloak and fluffed his chest-length beard.  Taking once again his backpack to his shoulder and pulling himself up to his full height, he rehearsed his speech aloud as his heart beat furiously in his chest. "Father, I have sinned against you..." and his feet moved closer to the house now backlit by the glory of the evening sunset.

Something in the distance stopped the father at his gate - made his breath come in quick, short spurts. Dare he hope after all these years? As the form approached, the father saw the uneven slope of the shoulders and the hesitant short strides of a man walking across the fields toward him.  Closer and closer the figure came, pulled forward by the heartbeat of his father.  " It is my son!! " The realization energized his feet, and the father forgot himself as he ran toward his dejected boy making his way across the meadow. Velvet robes flying, leaving the heavy aroma of sweet incense wafting in the air, sandals patting the dusty earth beneath his feet, an anxious, joyful, smiling father nearly collided with his homeless, filthy son.

"Father," began the boy, "I have sinned against you and against...."  He was unable to finish, for his father covered his rancid face in kisses and hugged his reeking body to his chest.  "My son!  My son!!" was all he could say as he held his boy's face in his hands and cried.

"I am so dirty..."

"Bring him a robe!" the father commanded a nearby servant.

"I've been so wrong and am not worthy..."

"Bring him a ring for his finger," the father's imperative. "For this is my son!"

"I am so hungry..."

"Kill us a nice fat calf and let's feast! My son was lost and is now found. My son was dead but is alive to me again!"  That was all that mattered.

In the fields, the rays of the setting sun were disappearing behind the hillside horizon as the older brother packed his scythe and hoe upon the back of his donkey.  The sweat of the noontime sun still clung to his tunic and made a salty covering that had settled into his black whiskers and onto his weathered, sun-burned cheeks.  The man stood erect, stretching his aching back, and looked toward his house in anticipation of a quiet dinner and soft white sheets.  His life had a pattern - a definite tempo to it that had become almost immutable.  Sameness ruled his every moment.  Up early, out to the fields, work until dark, dinner, sleep - up early, out to the fields - never changing.  Life had not ever been the same for his father since his younger son left home; but, years had now passed without a direct word from him. Of course they had heard, though, about his younger brother's carousing and drinking, as his exploits were infamous.  God only knew what had happened to him.  Only God and the kid's father really cared.

The man bent to pick up the reins then wearily guided his donkey down the hill.  Lights were glowing from all the windows in the house, dimming the brilliance of the stars overhead; and, as the older brother approached, he heard an irritating, noisy din that drew him in confusion toward what must be some sort of celebration.  The aroma of barbecued meat piqued his hunger, making him salivate involuntarily.  He could not think what had happened since he left that morning to make the mansion quake with such merriment.

Half-drunk, bright-eyed and greasy-faced, the older brother's stable hand met him as he neared.  "Sir!  Your brother is here!"  Taking the reins from his master's hand, the servant continued. "He came in the early evening.  Your father has called together all the friends and family to celebrate!"

Immovable, the man stood brooding and enraged as he watched his servant head to the stable.  All these years - these long years of months and days and hours of sweat and labor and duty and now our father kills a calf I raised to feed this disgusting, homeless profligate whose life has caused such derision to come to our family and has hurt countless people! How could Father just let him come home ?  How is that fair ?"  There was no way he was going to be a part of that party.

As soon as the Father heard of his older son's arrival from the fields, he ran to greet him with the news of his younger brother's return. The Father tried to put his hand on his son's shoulder but was rebuffed as the son shook off the embrace.  "What is all this commotion I hear?  Your worthless son has come home to a party? Never have I had such a party with my friends!"  Venomously he spit the words at his father. "I will not celebrate his sin! "

"All I have is yours," said his father, ignoring the hostility that had made his son cringe in rage. "You could have partied with your friends at any time."  The father put his weathered hand on the shoulder of his righteous son and felt the wrath as it made his son's body tremble.  "We must celebrate today because the son I thought dead is alive!" 

How many years does the profligate live before the Father no longer looks for him to come home?  Is eighty-four too many?  How many people does the wayward child injure, wound or even ruin before the Father will no longer love him?  Forty?  If the son or daughter does not appear on the horizon until he or she is desperate, with no other possible hope, is it then too late, for the child has worn too thin the love, grace and compassion of the Father? Is the self-righteous child who has joylessly slaved to be good enough out of duty all of her life, all the while despising the sinful freedom of her brother, any better herself for having stayed yet not having loved the Father?  Only duty?

All along, that is what Daddy needed. A Father. One who would not abandon or abuse him. The understanding that Daddy despicably used and ruined boys is nauseatingly heartbreaking to me.  It is not something I have the power to understand, much less forgive. I was not there when Daddy was abused, used by a passing stranger then discarded.  But God saw, and I believe in order to redeem that situation,  my heavenly Father would wait until Daddy was eighty-four and had "come to his senses" to right the wrong done to him when he was a  twelve-year-old victim of abuse, if that is how long it took. That same Father waits at twilight and at dawn for the restoration and redemption of every child my father abused, hurt, ruined, because He was there aching over the sins of my father. I was not there when Daddy was stripped of his willfulness in the glaring light of who he had become, so I cannot say with certainty that he was ultimately redeemed.  Of course, I do not know my father's heart, but I do know the heart of my heavenly Father, and it is waiting for the lost to come home.

I am aware as I write this that there are those reading who believe that my father was irredeemable. I do not know where God draws the line, or if He does. I do know that God is looking for a repentant heart, and I can only pray that as Daddy stepped, in that eternal moment, from this life into the next, he finally held the hand of his Father in the journey.