I went to my father and told him that this life was not what I wanted for myself. I needed to find my own sense of worth. Despite the love he held in his heart for me I needed to find my own way. A life of farming was not what I envisioned for myself. I asked for my inheritance, as bold as that sounds. I demanded my half of everything my father owned.
And he gave it to me.
With my share of my father's wealth I headed to a foreign land. I intended to have the best of times, eat, drink, be merry and take my choice of beautiful, exotic women. I fell in and out of love, if that's what you would have called it. My father would have called my desires sinful lust. I spent my money with abandon on every material item I could imagine, never thinking that every coin was earned by my father's hard work and calloused hands.
But soon my good time ended. I heard of famines, droughts and wars. At first I didn't think these hardships would affect me. In time these disasters came knocking on my door. In the aftermath my wealth had blown away like the desert dust. I was without shelter on the street and not a single denarius in my pocket.
I begged for a job from a farmer not unlike my father, but not nearly as wealthy. My job was to feed the pigs. The scraps of garbage I gave them looked more tempting than the slop I had to force into my stomach.
One night, I said to myself, as I laid in the damp cold beside the pen for the swine. "My father's servants are better off than I am. Even the lowest of his workers has more to eat than I do." It pained me to consider returning home, without any of my father's wealth to my name. "Father, take me back," I planned to say. "Treat me as a servant, not your son. I placed myself above you and threw the fruits of your labor into the streets with harlots."
I hoped he would at least allow me to harvest crops from the fields in the hot sun.
I started down the barren stretch of road, leading back to the home of my innocence. This journey was hard, filled with so much regret. My stomach ached from lack of nourishment. I craved a drink of cool water to wash the dust from my throat.
But when my legs were at their weakest, I saw him. A distant figure on a hillside. My legs gained the strength to continue toward him. I practiced my words of repentance until we were face to face and I fell into his embrace, sobbing.
|Return of the Prodigal Son - Bartolomé Esteban Murillo|
copyright 2016 - Donald P James Jr