The story of the prodigal son has been a huge inspiration to me. Let me tell it to you in my own words. It’s about a farmer who lived with his two sons in the rural part of a state. The sons were nothing alike although they had the same background, training and treatment growing up.
The elder son was an obedient and responsible child like most first children are but the younger one, hmmm that boy was consumed with wanderlust as he wanted to see life beyond the farm.
I imagine the young man’s pleas, then threats as to why he had to go to the city, I hear his father’s soft voice pleading with him to stay, telling him of the ills he was sure to encounter if he went. I see the boy listening but not understanding, telling himself he will not be as stupid as all those who found themselves in the sorry situation in the different stories his father told. I see him scoffing at his older brother who didn’t seem to have any ambitions beyond the farm and the livestock they kept. I see him staring at the faraway lights of the city that beckoned at him luring him away from the safety of his father.
The poor man tried all he could to stop his younger son from the evil that would surely befall him a young farm boy who was village wise but clueless in a big city, but he refused to listen so one day the father agreed to share his belongings and give his son his inheritance so he could make his mark in the world that he thought was waiting for him.
I see the father walking down the road with him and his last words to him I believe is: “YOU CAN ALWAYS COME HOME.”
Those words were a distant memory when he got to the city, saw its high skyscrapers, the neon lights, the conveniences and pleasures that abound but they came back to him after he found out how big , lonely, bad and scary the city really was. he became sober after all of his money had been spent and he was deserted by his fair weather friends.
One day, at the height of his despair he convinced himself that maybe just maybe his father meant those words, that his father in saying them must have known the things that were likely to happen to him and so he got up, just as he was , determined not to clean himself up for he said: “let my father see what I have become and I would know if he truly meant those words.”
Those words that he had scoffed at when his father spoke them came to him as a whisper at first, softly and gently but consistently. By then he had began to rue the day he left home for he felt shame, shame for what he had become, shame for leaving home, shame for not writing home, shame for wishing his father dead and shame for thinking he was better than his brother for he saw who he had become and it was different from whom he thought he was. Shame made him stay in the city longer than he had to, shame made him stoop to things he never would have thought he could do.
The journey home was torturous and filled with misgivings but he was pleasantly surprised and joy filled when his father seeing him from afar ran towards him when he was still a long distance from home and embraced him in his filth.
Yes his father meant his words.
I love this story because it’s not only one of redemption but of acceptance. Our children, spouses, siblings, friends, should know without a shadow of doubt that we will always be in their corner, always fight for them, always love them and always welcome them home especially when they have learnt the lessons life teaches.
The world can be a very terrifying place and our children may willfully expose themselves to things they have no inkling about. Peer pressure is rife and it can change the best of children but every child needs to know they can always come home.
Wait, before you throw the first stone, coming home doesn’t mean you condone their actions, nor does it mean they don’t get to bear the consequences and that I advocate that we open our hearts to a child who will use and dump us repeatedly.
It means when you know you have done wrong, realized your wrong, want to change, willing to put the work to it, I am here to help you. I understand what you have gone through, my arms are open in not condemnation.
Coming home means you are my child and I will be a place of refuge for you in the storms of life. May our children always know without a shadow of doubt that the doors of our hearts are always open.