The prodigal son
©copyright 2009 Frans Bezuidenhout
Hot air hovered where he sat shaded by locust trees not far from grunts and squeals of swine, increasing his agitation. Sweat stung his eyes. No matter where I sit, their stench follows me, he mused bitterly. Swatting flies settling his body, he shifted. Smelly pig swill drifted toward him— his stomach lurched. Although hunger pangs struck daggers, he could no longer stomach bitter berries or become accustomed to the smell of carob bean sweetness— it nauseated him. Standing up, he walked into the heat— it was feeding time. His humiliation deepened as he mulled over the questions: Why did I not see it coming? Was I too stupid to notice? Exhausted from his work, and trying to find answers, he sought refuge beneath a locust tree.
Evening ushered cool air— but only for a short time. My thoughts are my worst enemy, he reflected. Why had I not seen their greed, he questioned, humiliated by his ignorance. Pleas for help were ignored; some laughed, others scoffed calling him “Stupid Jew”. “Swine”, he remarked aloud. Aggitated, he flipped to his back, then ropped off into a troubled sleep.
Shivers rippled his naked body begging sanctity of cool water. Refreshed, heat surrounded him, drying his body. "I’ve wronged and embarrassed my father", he cried in distress. Dressing, he reminisced: Working for my father as one of his servants would be far better than one more day spent in guilt among the swine!
Deciding his fate, he skirted carefully from tree to tree toward the road, hearing their excited grunts and squeals following him— he quickened pace, determined not to be caught.
There was no remorse when he had left— now, less than a year later, self-reproach urged him closer to his father’s house. Feeling its relentless pounding, uncertainty took hold. Will he forgive me, he reflected, slowing down, then, with determination he picked up pace, rehearsing as he walked: “I have sinned.” The words mocked— tears flowed anew.
Walking cautiously towards his father’s house, unaware he had been seen, someone scurried towards him. Pursued by his demise, he dropped to his knees with pounding heart, accepting the inevitable. In the lantern’s light, arms gently held him. He tried to draw away when his father kissed his forehead— I do not deserve this, he thought with tearful heart.
His cry struck the dark of night: “Father, I have sinned against God, and you. I am not worthy to be called your son.”
As his father lifted him to his feet, he heard him shout to the servants, “Bring clothes— hurry! The best there is! Dress him and put a ring on his finger. Observing his son's tattered sandals and bleeding feet, he added: "Give him a pair of new shoes."
Listening to their excited voices while they attended to his needs, he reflected: Never before have I felt so wanted. Overwhelmed, he watched in silence as they prepared the feast. “We have fattened this calf just for you ... your father never gave up hope,” they explained.
Walking slowly, he reached for his father’s hand and kissed it. Smiling, his father stood to address the crowd: “My son was dead, but now he is alive; he was lost, but he has been given back to me.” With slight movement of hand, his father signalled the feast to begin. Music, song and laughter filled the sky, as dancers twirled around flickering fireside flames. Joy saturated this father’s heart.
~~The End
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