Still too far from home. The young man had been walking since daybreak, and it was now almost too dark to see. He unrolled his swag and laid it down off the side of the road.
He’d been able to catch a ride now and then, but most of the vehicles on the road passed him by. He didn’t blame them; he looked like a shady character in his ragged clothes and holey boots. He was reduced almost to skin and bones. He hadn’t shaved in months and his hair had grown down to his shoulders in a tangled mess. He knew he smelled, too, but a bath and a change of clothes had not been an option for a while now.
With all this in mind, he wondered whether he’d even be recognised at the outback property he used to call home.
Home… He sighed deeply. Right now, it seemed the most wonderful place on earth.
He’d thrown it all away. So immature, so irresponsible, so set on his own way, he had never even given it a chance. He thought of his father, finally relenting with tears in his eyes to letting his son leave with his share of the family inheritance.
The young man had fallen on hard times – or rather, he’d made wrong choices – stupid, reckless choices. He’d spent his money before he knew it, on drinking, gambling, partying, women and drugs. His big city friends were no friends at all once the money was gone, and nor was the world his friend when he tried to find employment. There was a global financial crisis looming, and nobody wanted to take on an unskilled country boy from a faraway place.
He finally found a pig farmer who allowed him to camp on his land. But there was no food. He found himself envying the pigs, for they were fed. His stomach ached and so did his heart.
He was heading for home now – if he would still be allowed to call it home. They had every right to slam the door in his face. He had never given his father a chance, so why should his father show him any mercy? He owed his son nothing.
Guilt and failure and shame mingled with fear as he thought about it all. A part of him wanted to run away, even to end his own life. But somewhere amid all these feelings there was a spark of hope that perhaps his father would be generous enough just to give him a job on the family property. He didn’t deserve to be called a son, but he hoped against hope that he might just scrape in as a hired hand.
The older man cried most nights. He had it all – success, wealth, friends – but he’d never stop missing his youngest son. He would give anything even to know that he was all right. He would give everything to have him home once again.
But he had not given up hope. Not yet. He would never stop hoping that somehow, some day his prayers would be answered. Whatever had happened, he’d forgive. If there were debts, he’d repay them. If there was guilt and shame and remorse, he would love and affirm and encourage.
He hadn’t wanted to let his son go. He knew that the risk was great. The boy was young, wilful and stubborn. But there had to be an element of trust in the relationship; some hope that if he set his son free he would one day see him again, with or without the inheritance.
He also knew that if he didn’t allow him to go he would lose him anyway. His son would be present physically, but his heart would be elsewhere. The father knew that love that is enforced is not love at all.
But, oh – how his heart ached! Every chance he had, he would sit on his front veranda for a time, watching the horizon, imagining his lost son’s return. His older son begged him to give it up – the younger brother wasn’t coming back – it was time to move on with his life. The hired workers were concerned that their employer was slowly losing his mind.
But real love has a tenacity, an endurance, and a hope that will not be put aside. Real love never gives up.
Then one day, something appeared in the distance – a mere dot on the horizon. The heat rose in waves from the dusty ground, making the something indistinguishable, but it seemed to be moving slowly, too slowly for a vehicle. It was either a human being or an animal of some sort.
Lunch was on the table. There was work to be done that afternoon. But the father refused to move from the front veranda. The dot was moving closer. He called to one of his men to fetch his binoculars.
“It’s just some stray beast,” the man insisted. But his employer was adamant.
He zoomed in on the figure.
Throwing the binoculars aside and leaping down the stairs, he began to run, yelling like a madman. The workers who were there gathered around, wondering what all the noise was about. The man of the house ran like his life depended on it, towards the approaching figure.
They saw a man, stooped and limping. His face was covered in whiskers down to his chest, and the hair on his head was long and tangled. He wore filthy rags and as he came closer, he smelled so bad that they had to hold their noses. They saw his hollowed cheeks, his weathered face and his lips blistered by the sun. And their boss was kissing him!
The lost son was home.
The young man was weeping as he tried to speak. “Dad, I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve to be called your son any more…what I’ve done is unforgivable.”
But his father didn’t answer. “Get some good clean clothes and some shoes!” he called to his staff. “Soap…water…clean towels! And prepare a feast! We’re going to have a party – it’s going to be the best celebration we’ve ever had! My son has come home!”
Based on Luke 15:11-24.
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