The old man lay in his bed. The morning was upon him, although the sun had yet to rise. The man often woke before its first rays. He was sleeping less and less these days, despite the deep fatigue that had settled in his bones. Each evening, just as the man’s eyes would close, they seemed to open again, not more than five hours later. On his good days, the man would get up and putter around the house in the dark, thinking about his two sons. The elder son, who worked so hard in the fields that he barely spoke to his father, and the younger, the one who had left home months before, taking his inheritance with him.
On his bad days, the old man would lay in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, trying to recall the sensation of his wife’s hair sliding through his fingers.
This was a morning he stayed in bed. He counted the aches in his body. Even in a supine posture, he could feel they were awakening with him, greeting him like unwelcome houseguests. He was aware of the tightness in his lower back, and the throb in his knee. His newest ache seemed to have settled in his chest, like a piece of cloth wrapped tightly around his ribs. It had begun a sense of urgency in the man, that perhaps the time that he had left on earth was shorter than he imagined, and he had business he had to take care of before he left. There was the business of his sons.
The man took a deep breath and pushed two fingers below his sternum, right between his lungs. The pain subsided. He thought of Asher, his younger son, the one with the eyes like his mother, round and playful eyes that always seemed alight with mirth. They were the eyes of two people he missed dearly. One of them could still come home, the man thought, hopefully.
The pain returned and shot to the nerves in the tips of his toes, he wiggled them and moved his fingers lower. He thought of Micah, his eldest son. Although this one was home, he seemed gone in a distant land like his brother. The man almost never saw him in the house or anywhere but the field. Micah spent more time speaking with his stalks of wheat than he did with his father.
The man missed them both with an ache that had taken root in the deep recesses of his heart. Maybe that’s what was hurting in his chest, he thought, festering like an untreated wound.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the thoughts of his sons propelling him forward. He walked down the stairs, pausing at the front door.
He did this every morning, gazing out onto the stone pathway that led from the road to the house, hoping he’d see his youngest son walking up it. This morning it was the same, only the trees greeted him with their trembling leaves. He turned from the window.
As he turned, something moved in the corner of his eye. He turned back, scanning the horizon. There was nothing there. Even still, he flung open the door. He had to be sure. He raced down the walkway, willing his feet to move as fast as they could before his mind could catch up. He lifted his head and imagined his youngest son there, conjuring him up in his mind, the tousled blonde hair and the smile that spread across his entire face. As the man raced down the path, he only saw the trees, the leaves flapping in the wind, laughing at him for being so foolish. He heard the footsteps of his servants behind him, his sudden exit having sparked their curiosity and concern.
His feet slowed as reality settled over him like a wet woolen blanket. He stopped and bent over, fighting the urge to lay his heavy body down in the dirt, instead.
“Go back,” He said to them, raising his voice and motioning behind him with his hand. “I’m fine, I just thought I saw Asher.”
The servant to reach him first crouched down to look into the man’s face. “Are you alright, Master?” He said. Embarrassment crept up from the man’s collar as he saw the concerned eyes of his most trusted house servant.
“Yes, I’m fine. I just thought I saw him.” The man’s words were broken by his heavy breathing. “But I’m wrong, I must’ve seen something else.”
He concentrated on the road, swallowing hard, trying to stomach the foolishness of running down the road after a mirage.
“But, Sir!” The servant said. “There he is!”
The man stood up at attention, as if he had been pulled by a string.
There he was. The eyes, the hair. It was, indeed, the man’s youngest son. The golden locks hung limp and heavy with grease. His eyes looked even larger, the flesh around them having been lost by hunger.
The man’s legs took off again, like an unbridled mare. He raced to Asher, barreling` into him with the force of a windstorm. The man felt his son’s bony arms wrap tightly around him.
“Father, I’m so sorry.” Asher’s voice cracked. The man didn’t want to hear it. He could see it in Asher’s eyes, the shame. It broke the man’s heart. Didn’t his son know how much he loved him and how he had longed for him? Didn’t he know that he had looked out the window each day envisioning this moment?
“My son, my son,” the man said. “You have returned!”
The man took his son’s face in his hands and slowly moved it back and forth, taking in every angle, the curve of his nose the shape of his lips. He remembered when Asher had asked for his inheritance, the determination in his eyes that the man could only recognize as the same that had once been in his own.
“Bring a clean robe for him and fresh sandals for his feet.” The man said to his servants who were now bustling around in the excitement. Watching the son, watching the father.
The man sat back on his heels, sweat dripping into his eyes from his brow. With great effort, he pulled the gold ring off his finger and placed it on Asher’s.
Asher stared at it.
“You’re giving me your ring?” Asher said.
“It’s yours now.” The man said to his son.
“But it’s the last thing Mom gave to you, you never take it off. I can’t take it from you.”
“Everything I have is yours, Son. Now, we will throw a celebration! For you have returned.” The man said.
The man guided his son to the house, practically carrying him through the front door. He resisted the urge to take him right to his room and tuck the blanket around him like he did when Asher was a boy. He used to do the same for his eldest son.
That reminded the man.
“Send word to Micah in the fields.” He said to the servants, who were now following them back to the house like a row of ducklings. “Tell them his brother has returned and we are throwing a party.”
Asher’s head hung heavy with fatigue. “You should rest.” The man said. “Once you awake, the calf will be ready to eat, and the rejoicing will begin.”
“But Father, I shamed you and your name. I took what was yours and then I lost it, all of it. I don’t deserve this.”
“You don’t have to deserve it.” The man said. “You are my son.”
The man kissed Asher on the forehead and watched him ascend the stairs to his bed. In his mind, he tucked the corners of the blanket around his son, smoothing the fabric and creasing the folds.
###
The man danced like a fire had been lit under his skin. His hips found their sway and his feet followed the rolling rhythm of the music. The aches of the morning were far from his mind, and he turned around and around on the dance floor like his heart was ten years lighter. As he danced, he watched the corners of the room, remembering his wife laughing there, thinking of her hair and the way that she would tie it up with a piece of cloth halfway through the party, exposing the small indent in the back of her neck. The man half expected her to appear, that’s how young he was feeling.
He broke from the crowd to find his glass of wine. He took a long drink and scanned the faces of the guests for the son that had returned. When he saw him, he felt joy fill his body. Asher was home.
Micah should be arriving soon, he thought.
“Did Micah get word?” He asked a servant standing nearby.
“Let me check, Master.”
The sound of a crash came from the porch and the man set down his cup, the hair on his arms prickled. He walked around the corner and saw Micah standing by an overturned bucket, the water spilling over the stones. Micah’s hands shook, his boots soaked.
“Micah.” The man said trying to ignore the anger rising from his son like smoke from a smoldering fire. “I’m glad you’re here. Won’t you come in and celebrate with us? We have been watching for you.”
Micah stood taut. The man wanted to wrap his arms around his son and soothe him, taking all that frustration and laying it down for him. The man thought of Micah as a young boy, bringing him small gifts: a whittled stick, a flower that he had picked, a stone that looked like an animal. They would fill Micah’s pockets so full that his robe would hang askew from the weight. Micah still stood like that. He stood like he was bearing more weight than his own but this time it was the weight of his own pride.
“Come inside, Micah.” The man said quietly.
“Why does Asher get a party, Father?” Micah’s voice broke like a slap to the face. “He squandered all that you gave him, but you kill the fattened calf for him. I have slaved for you and I don’t get as much as a small goat.”
The man remembers when Micah would guide his younger brother through the trees that led to the house. They had some game they would play for hours. It got so that their mother would say that the trees were the ones raising them instead of her. He remembers coaxing her to let them stay out a little longer.
After she died, they never went to the trees again. They became like sworn enemies, each one clinging in their way of life, thinking it would save them. Asher, the younger, seeking all the worldly pleasures. Micah, the elder, seeking righteousness by the work of his hands.
Both were wrong.
One had laid down his own way and come home.
The man desperately wanted the other to, as well.
“You work so hard, Micah but you don’t have to.” The man said. “Everything that I have is yours. Will you please come and celebrate your brother?” He pleaded with his eyes for his son to see that he was loved for who he was and not for what he did.
Tears ran down Micah’s face.
“He can’t even corral the sheep, Father.” Micah said between sobs. “A child can do that. How can you love him more than me?”
“You know that’s not true.” The man said to the son that resembled him the most, the dimple on his cheek in the same spot the man had one. “You are always with me, it is fitting to celebrate and be glad for your brother. He was dead and now he is alive; he was lost, and is found.”
The aches returned to the knees of the old man and he looked for a spot to sit down. He wasn’t going to gain both sons today. He felt the grief in his knees, in his back and in his chest. He hobbled over to Micah. The man would wait for him. If he wasn’t found today, then maybe he would be tomorrow. He kissed Micah on the cheek, then went back to join the celebration.
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The Father in the Parable of the Prodigal Son represents God, who waits longingly for all those he loves to turn from their ways and acknowledge him. Jesus is teaching this story to a crowd of Pharisees who don’t see that they have chosen pride over God and are, instead, quick to condemn and judge others when they should be repenting themselves.
This was a beautiful three part story! There were so many layers to the father/son relationships. It's entirely true that the death of one parent can alter the relationship between siblings. It's also true that the despair of one child (even adult) can weigh heavy on a parent whether it be physically, emotionally or mentally. We are mind, body, spirit, and this series on the Prodigal Son explores the woven nature of such.