The Prodigal Father

"But when he was still a great way off, his father saw him and had compassion, and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him." -Luke 15:20

I've been struggling with feelings of self-hatred recently. I took a silent retreat yesterday and meditated on this story of the prodigal son. I was drawn to this verse and stayed with it all day. And truthfully, the verse still feels completely foreign. I can't just get my heart around the fact that God actually feels this way about me. As I sat with this verse, I began thinking about the story from the perspective of the father. I wrote the following as a way of trying to let this verse sink into my own soul. Surprisingly, I found the father's experience to be very much like my own, a daily struggle against hopelessness and despair. And I got stuck when it came time to write the moment when Father sees Son on the road. I just had no experience from my life to draw on to capture Father's emotions. Largely, I still have a heart of sadness. But my was warm as I left yesterday.


The Prodigal Father

Father headed home, slowly and with deliberate pensiveness. He was sad, but not because the day had been bad. He just was. The barley harvest was shaping up to be adequate - I mean, it's not like it would be a bumper crop or anything, but much better than in other places. He had even heard of one country where famine had struck that year so severely that one hired man had killed another over a pod husk. To eat! Those things were so thick, so coarse, and so disgusting that their only practical use was to feed the pigs. At least his hired men hadn't been reduced to eating pod husks; not this year, anyway. The weather had been good that day and the field work productive. And just as he did every other day, he sent everyone home just a little early so he could wander by the city gates to watch the road before the gatekeepers shut the gates for the night. And just like every other day, he went back home dejected. He missed Son.

Twelve years. Twelve long, dreary years had passed since his son had one day demanded his inheritance then just up and left. Even then he had known what was going to happen. Son would go out and spend it all on wine, women, and basically every imaginable kind of worldliness. Eventually the money would run out, then Son would have to do something. He just hoped that Son would have retained enough brain cells to do the sensible thing and just come home. Truth be told, he never expected Son to be gone this long. He figured the money would last two years, maybe three if Son had been somewhat discretionary with his spending. But twelve years? And every evening, night after night after night, he went to the gate to see if Son might be coming home. And every night they closed the gates, and no Son.

Harvest came, and harvest went. Winter came, and winter went. Another year came, and another year went. Springtime came, and, of course, calving season came with it. As each calf was born, he would assist the mother to avoid injuries as much possible, give the calf a name, and enter the calf inter the ledger. All except for one. As he did every year, he selected one calf who, as soon as that calf was born, would be taken away from the mother. There was no rhyme or reason for his selection. He chose purely on his intuition. This calf never received a name. He took the calf, brought it to the barn, put it in the biggest stall, and fed it all season long with the highest quality feed he had. He passed by the calf's stall every morning, always speaking to it lovingly as put the daily food in the pen. Father would also milk the mother every day and feed the calf it's mother's milk with his hand. And for that season, the calf became his Son.

One night that summer, just before harvest, Father went by the gate toward sundown, as he had now done for thirteen years. The usuals were there, of course -- merchants closing up business for the day, the courts adjourning, and a few travelers who had arrived late in the day catching everybody up on the gossip from the next town over. But today, something unusual happened. As he peered out over the road, he saw a lone traveler far in the distance, so far that he wasn't sure if there was one or perhaps more than one. A lone traveler was quite unexpected, especially so late in the day, since the road wen tup into the foothills and was known for bandits. The traveler disappeared behind a rise and reemerged several minutes later. Yes, he was definitely alone. A candle of hope flickered as Father internally sought for an explanation. Perhaps the traveler was simply passing by on the way to the next town? No, it was too late in the day for that. He was certainly coming here. Several more mintes passed, and the traveler came closer. Father stood at the gate, his eyes riveted on the road. The gatekeepers had seen now as well, and everyone was chattering about the mystical lone traveler coming so late in the day. With every step of the traveler, Father's heart grew more anxious that perhaps this was indeed Son returning. And with every step Father beat back his anxiety, steeling himself for the possibility of being bitterly disappointed yet again.

It was the walk. The clothes were different, the hair was turning gray, and the body was skin and bones; but Father recognized the walk of his Son. He didn't have time to be happy. He stripped off his knife, his satchel, his cloak, everything that would slow him down ... leaving them right there on the ground! ... and ran. He didn't even feel his humiliation at running (which is the one thing that middle-aged men never did in public ... EVER). Son was too weak to run, but also recognized Father running toward him. And when they met, they embraced, tears streaming. There were no words ... there would be time later. They simply embraced; not in the manner of fathers and sons, but as lovers do, when eternity distills into a single moment because neither wants to let go.

Then Father killed the fatted calf. And they began to be merry.