I think maybe the Master saw what was coming when his younger son walked into the room. “Father,” he said, “give me the money that I would inherit when you die—my half of the estate”. The master walked over to the window and stood looking out of it for a long minute. When he turned back, it was as though a heavy weight had fallen on his shoulders. He looked into his son’s face searchingly. “Son,” he said, “are you sure this is what you want?”. “Of course, I’m sure” he replied. “I think I’m old enough to know what I want”. “Very well,” the master replied. “I will divide the property between you and your brother”.
Not long later, I was walking back from an errand in town, when I saw strangers bustling in and out of the house on the younger son’s share of the property. I watched puzzled, and turned when I heard a voice behind me. “Been in the family a hundred years”, said the old man behind me. “Now it’s housing strangers”. “He sold the family land to strangers? But why...?” The old man snorted. “The idiot’s taken all he has ans taken off—to have a good time, he says”. I turned and walked slowly home.
When I arrived home, it was like walking into a house were someone has died. I couldn’t bear to look into the master’s face. It makes me afraid when grown men cry.
That was a long summer. It seemed whenever you went to look for the Master you would find him looking down the road. Once he was so focused on a dusty traveler in the distance, that I spoke to him three times before he heard me. “Yes, Rachel”, he replied finally, and looked back at the traveler. He was close enough to see more clearly now. “Not tall enough” he said softly.
“Saw your son in Nineveh”, the traveling merchant said casually. The activity and murmur of people enjoying a meal was instantly stilled. “Having a fine old time that one was”. He laughed. “Too drunk to see straight and with woman on each arm”. I couldn’t bear to look at the Master’s face. The grief covering it was too raw.
I met him later in the hall. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Thank you,” he replied. “Me too”. I looked up at him and I guess the questions that it wouldn’t be proper for me to ask were clear on my face. “I had to let him go,” he told me gently. “You control the behavior of oxen and mules, not men. He had the freedom to choose.”
I’ll never forget that hot September afternoon. I heard shouts outside, and hurried to the porch, nearly falling into the cook, Joanne. She wasn’t interested in me though. “The Master’s lost his mind," she cried and I followed her gaze to the figure of the master flying down the road towards a distant ragged stranger.
I guess you can run pretty fast when you are excited—and I was quite a bit younger than the master. He had just caught up with his son by the time I reached them. The son was skinny as a rail and stunk like a pigsty. His head was bowed in shame. “Father,” he began “I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son...” his voice cracked. But he didn’t get a chance to get any further. The master had thrown his arms around him and was kissing him. “My son, my son,” he cried. I wish I could tell you how he said those words. They were filled with compassion for all his son had gone through, grief at his leaving, and joy at his return at the same time. I guess it’s not so bad when grown men cry when its tears of happiness. Then the master saw me and cried “Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found”.
When I brought the son his robe, he took it gratefully. “Thank you, Rachel” he said. I think that he really saw me as a person for the first time.
It was a lovely party. There was dancing and singing and delicious food and it felt like springtime in the house. One person wasn’t happy though. The older son had watched the festivities with a frown darkening on his face. Finally he turned rigidly on his heel and walked out. I timidly followed him. "Sir..." I began. He swung around to face me. "Don't try to talk to me!" he snapped, his voice simmering with rage. "I've tried so hard all these years! Every day I tried to be the best son possible for my father. But he values that...failure...inside more than all my efforts!" He laughed bitterly. "And now I'm reduced to complaining about my feelings to a mere servant while my father fusses over the wastrel." The older son turned away from me and faced the autumn evening. "I tried so hard..." he said in a softer voice that was suspiciously thick. For a moment I stood helplessly behind him, and then turned to slip back inside.
"Master," I said quietly. He turned to look up at me with a smile that faded as he saw the trouble on my face. "Please come." We walked to the back porch with the older son's silhouette stiff against the evening sky. The master gave a sigh. “My son” he said. “I can’t believe it!” the son responded without facing his father. “Here I am doing everything you ever told me and you never threw me a party. But when this idiot son of yours comes home after wasting your property with prostitutes, you give him the very best!” “My son,” the master replied tenderly, “I don’t love you because you are good enough. I love you because you are mine. You are always with me, and everything I have already belongs to you. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found”. Suddenly I felt like an intruder and turned to go inside. But as I looked back, I saw the older son, shoulders shaking, with his face buried in his father's chest. My heart was light as I rejoined the lighted room.
I know that there are many stories about what happened all those years ago. This is a true account of all that occurred, for I saw it all. And I have never grown tired of thinking over the events of that year. Nor have I ever grown tired of telling it--as I have faithfully told the story to you, the story of two sons and the father that loved them.
