Prodigal Path

Across the open field, my father saw me. How he recognized me from so far away, I don’t know. My clothes were tattered, my hair matted and my skin darkened with dirt. I’d been walking for days and stumbled my way the last few hours. Something was guiding me — like a voice calling my name and the wrong ways departing. When I stepped into the clear, I could see our home on the hill and my father in the distance. His eyes locked onto me as though he knew I was coming like he was watchful for a thief in the night. He dropped what he was working on and came running toward me, kicking up rocks from the gravel road and then into into the grass directly ahead of me, shouting for joy. My brother and the other workers stopped to see what the commotion was about, searching for me in the clearing. I was so tired, I just stood and watched, my heart swelling with love that overwhelmed my nerves. The closer my father came, the clearer I could see him a broad smile on his face. He charged up the hill and threw his arms around me. “My son, my son … you’re home!” he said. And I was, before he ever embraced me.