Prodigal's father

This past Sunday I was the substitute teacher in Sunday School.  The main parable of the lesson was the Prodigal Son.  This quote in the lesson by Gordon B.Hinckley has really had me thinking:   "Every parent ought to read it again and again. It is large enough to encompass every household, and enough larger than that to encompass all mankind, for are we not all prodigal sons and daughters who need to repent and partake of the forgiving mercy of our Heavenly Father and then follow His example?” (“Of You It Is Required to Forgive,” Ensign, June 1991, 5).

As a father my thoughts tend to turn first to what it must have been like for him.  Here is a poem I wrote as I contemplated what it must have been like for the father.

Prodigal's Father

He sat and watched the horizon

remembering the day,
feeling the feelings, again:

his failure, the guilt, the teetering hope.

The day life changed
family changed
peace and comfort changed
to pain and loss.

"I know he has struggled,
chafed under family rules
but please Lord,
bring him safely home."

This prayer mumbled aloft,
thought again and again,
prayed on hurting knees
over and over again.

Every chance he got

every day, many times a day,

sometimes in mid night,

he looked to the road home.

Although supplies, sheep,

and the occasional neighbor

was seen;

his lost son was not.

Had he failed his son

so much?

Not taught him of truth?

Not met his fatherly edict from God?

Was it me

that pushed him to go?

Not loving enough?

Loving too much?

Will he return?

Surely he will?

It has been so long,

is all hope lost?

His other son comes.

Wonders why father

is so forlorn.

Angry thoughts of "I'm here".

Wife worries.

Not just for sons,

but for husband.

He has not been himself.

Father moves through each day

not sure how to maintain

the traditions and the family,

with an empty chair.

Friends initially comfort,

then try to cheer,

then to distract,

finally come too little.

Day after day;

week after week;

season by season;

hope by lost hope.

The father still looks on

into the distance
looking for a hope

of his son's return.

Father feels old.

Mother tries to heal all.

Remaining son feels cold.

Friends move on.

Father in his chair

exhausted,

hope almost gone,

but he clings, he clings...

Heavy head droops,

almost touches
heavy heart.

He glances up.

A speck

A spot

A shape

Is it him?

It can’t be.

Can it be?

It is him!

Run!

 Copyright by Dallas, Dad, Big D and I