The Father's Grief

There is a story told in the New Testament of two sons; the elder stayed home and did everything his father asked, and the younger wanted to leave. 

In those days, upon the death of a father, the elder son got two thirds of the inheritance, while the remainder was divided among the younger sons. There was a provision in the law of the day that a son could ask for his share of the inheritance prior to the father's death - but requesting such a thing was, in essence, saying that the son desired his father's death. It was a very mercenary thing to do. Greedy. 

Many commentaries on this story look at the son leaving as the moment at which the son turned his back on his dad. 

Might I submit that this had happened long before the boy packed his bags - that the younger son had done nothing all of his life, or at least all of his teenage years, except to take whatever the father freely gave to him as his right, and still asked for more. He used his dad's name, his dad's wealth, his standing in the community, and that wasn't enough. He couldn't wait for his dad to die. And it wasn't happening fast enough. 

So he grabbed what he wanted and left the farm. 

From the dad's perspective, this son had turned his back on everything he had taught him. He robbed his dad of the help and care that would be his in his old age, by taking off and spending his money on frivolities and lascivious living. 

Did you know that the word "prodigal" means "wasteful"? It does! 

Did you also know that when a child in the Hebrew culture embraces a lifestyle with which the parent does not agree, the family has a funeral for him? That started many centuries ago and it still happens!

"Male Crying" photo courtesy of
David Castillo Dominici at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The father in the prodigal son story grieved the loss of his son ... as if he had died. In fact, the boy he remembered, the child who doted on his father's every word, truly no longer existed. He'd been replaced by a petulant, prideful, pathetic individual who only looked after himself and who ignored or rejected all efforts to make him see the error of his ways. 

The father mourned for him. Perhaps for weeks, perhaps for months and maybe even years his heart ached within him. At sunset and often during the day, he found his eyes straying unbidden to the gate, the place where he had watched his son's retreating form walk up the hill, then disappear over the top of it.  

Over and over he thought about those last few months prior to his son's departure. He blamed himself for not being able to teach his son right from wrong. He wondered if there was anything he could have done to keep his son from engaging in such selfish behavior. All the arguments, all the bitter words, echoed through his mind. Shame and anguish engulfed him. Once in a while, he'd hear reports of what his boy was doing out there - and his spirit was distressed, the grief as fresh as the very first day. He wondered if there would ever be an end to the waste, to the selfish actions by which the boy's life was characterized now. 

Yet, he'd had no choice but to let go... as painful as it was.

In the meantime, miles away, it took the natural consequences of those selfish actions to hammer the boy's pride and self-absorption into submission. The process might have taken years; we are not told how long it was. 

But one day - one day when the former heir had thrown it all away and there was absolutely nothing left - he realized that in wasting his father's riches and resources, he had wasted himself. He knew he had given up the right to be treated as a son. He knew his dad had already had a funeral for him. He knew that he didn't exist. 

He was a non-person. A second-class citizen. A servant. 

Yes, he had in reality made himself a servant to his own passions, to the grips of excess and then to the bony grasp of poverty to which his self-centered behavior had brought him. 

His mind dwelt on servanthood; he knew a lot about it. His father had many hired hands - they had enough to eat and more besides, and a warm and clean place to live. True, their lives were at the beck and call of their master. Yet their master - the father - was good to them. They were protected, cared for, fed, clothed and housed.

He, on the other hand, was feeding pigs. Swine - the most disgusting animal a Jew could possibly be asked to tend. He smelled of pig feces; the odor is one of the worst in the world of domesticated animals. His clothes, his hair, his skin reeked of it. Yet he was so hungry that he gladly would have fought them off at close range to get the pig slop that they received. Yet, he wasn't even allowed to share the pigs' food. Nobody gave him anything. Not one thing.

He wasn't aware how deeply his dad had grieved; in fact, he'd convinced himself that his dad didn't care about him the way a dad cares about a son. He'd done too much, wasted too much. Especially himself. 

Yet ... he was desperate.

He'd go back to the homestead, he thought, and ask to be hired on as a servant. Living in the servants' quarters wouldn't be so bad. It would certainly be a lot better than what he was forced to do now. And it was a lot better, he reasoned, than he deserved. 

When he left home, he felt entitled to the life he thought he'd been denied. When he started back, he felt beaten. Used up. Worthless. 

He was desperate. He was willing to go to any lengths to have a better life than the one he'd chosen, the lifestyle that had turned on him and devoured him. 

Before he rounded the crest of the hill toward home, before he was amazed to find that his father welcomed him with open arms and reinstated him as a full member of the household, little did he know how many long nights his dad had held close to himself all that was good about his growing-up years, how profoundly and constantly his father had missed him. His company, his voice, his smile, his laughter. 

His heart. 

The relationship he'd abandoned, wasted in the dust on his father's front doorstep, was waiting for him when he returned. The father made that perfectly clear. He knew it - though the enormity of the dad's forgiveness and acceptance overwhelmed him - as surely as he knew his own name. The sounds of music and dancing had returned to the house. He was so very grateful.

He stole a glance at the older man amid the festivities.

His dad's face was wet with tears. But he was smiling from ear to ear.

Entering Into Rest

I had a strange spiritual experience last night. It wasn't in the realm of the bizarre - because I've been present when others have had similar ones - but this was the first time it had happened to me.

Let me back up a bit. For the past few weeks, my almost-21 daughter has been in a relationship with a young man which she INSISTS isn't sexual but which is, by all observations, obsessional in nature. Six months ago she didn't even know him; now, she declares that he is her best friend. 

This young man has a past that includes a conviction in a court of law for dealing drugs. He maintains relationships with the people he knew while he was in that life, and in the past few weeks, our property has been vandalized, money has been stolen from our house, and narcotics - prescribed for our other child after a major surgery - were stolen as well. He left our house that day and hasn't been back, but she continued to spend time with him. We set down more and more limits - and slowly it became painfully clear that she was choosing her new friends over her family. 

This hasn't been the first time that she has obsessed about a member of the opposite gender. Ever since before she turned 14, this has been happening. As soon as her hormones turned on, there's been a growing fascination with the world that we tried so hard to protect her from - first nicotine and then alcohol, then the lifestyle of the drug addict and the pusher. Of course that lifestyle doesn't just include the acts themselves, but a whole host of destructive behaviors - violence, theft, verbal and physical abuse, pathological lying, riding the edge of the law, cop-baiting, and (needless to say) disrespect of anything or anyone that insists on the truth. 

It was when this young man used her phone and texted me all sorts of obscene insults, accusing me of the most unthinkable things - and then she defended HIM - that I realized that the child I knew, the beautiful, loyal, caring person I had helped to raise, was dead. She had died seven years ago and had been replaced by someone who now had no moral compass. Her toxic behavior and attitudes poisoned relationships with all who cared about her; her friends (the ones who really DID care - one even told me, "She's changed. I don't even know who she is anymore") didn't want to spend time with her anymore.

It was at that point that I allowed myself to grieve.

The pain was beyond anything I had ever felt. And it's not over; it comes in waves.

Anyway, this past Thursday night, after being used as a human ATM for what seemed like the millionth time, we had a conversation with her in which we calmly but firmly told her that she was not allowed back into our house any more. She had made her choice and she couldn't eat her cake and still have it. 

I talked with our pastor about the situation and how I was - we were - reacting to it emotionally. He affirmed our decision - which he said was really the only decision we could have made - and it helped to know that we had his support. Yet there was an ache in my heart and a big heavy ball in my belly that made it difficult to take a deep breath. I would reach down and it would be rock-hard. It never left... it was always there, even in the night.

"Sleeping Baby" photo courtesy of Dynamite Imagery at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Which brings me to last evening at church. In intense prayer for my daughter, and in prayer as well for relief / respite from the pain, Pastor came up behind me and a couple of ladies from the church were there, each holding a hand. I won't go into the details, but my heart felt like it was in labor, the emotional pain was so severe. For well over ten minutes, it was as if I was giving birth to her all over again. I was wet to my shoulders with tears, my breath coming in gasps. All the anguish I had been holding in so as to "be strong" came out ... and I ended up limp, weak and sobbing as prayer continued on behalf of our entire family.

It was exhausting. I had a sense, however, of laying my head on Jesus' shoulder, hearing His heartbeat, and feeling His arm around me as if I were an injured lamb and He the shepherd ... and He was carrying me until I was strong enough to walk on my own.

A fresh wave of tears came welling up, later, as Pastor came over again after my husband was able to come off the stage (he'd been on worship team) and sit beside me. Pastor began to intercede for my husband - our pastor is a true shepherd; he has the ability to sense the emotions people are hiding or even unable to feel - and he began to groan in empathy as he prayed. And suddenly a dear friend was sitting there beside me on the other side, with her arm around me, weeping with us. 

It was a blessed and precious (if strange) time of true openness and fellowship - unlike anything I'd ever experienced in that place before. 

When we got home, I came to my computer and spent some time on Facebook, even crocheted a bit, and tried playing a computer puzzle-game. I think I remember watching some of the national news program on TV.

My husband had to wake me up an hour later to get me to go to bed and sleep. I stumbled through my nightly routine and went to bed. 

When I awoke, something felt different. I was laying on my belly, something I have not been able to do for months but especially for the last few days, because of that heavy, hard ball in my belly. 

It was gone.

I reached down to my belly and pushed. It felt spongy - pliable - just like the lower abdomen feels after one has delivered a baby. 

And I could take a deep breath without any pain at all. 

The scriptures talk about "laboring to enter into rest" - and although I know that has a deeper spiritual meaning, I believe that is exactly what happened. 

I had labored, given birth, and now I could rest. 

Just rest - trust - and let Him hold me.

Boxes

A lot of the blog posts I come up with are derived from conversations I've had with my husband. Like this one. This morning at breakfast we were talking about a few things, and the topic of preconceived notions came up, the tendency that so many people have to pre-judge what belongs where and who would or would not do [fill in the blank]. 

Although it's not an exclusive activity by any means, Christians do this a lot. I've been around believers who fall prey to the fallacy that as believers, we are better than the rest of the world. Oh, they would never admit it, but they seem to act as though they believe that we're ... well, we're God's favorites. 

Let me explain. I've actually heard, from one Christian or another over the years, that one can't be a committed Christian and also :

• have a chronic or terminal illness
• go bankrupt
• have been separated or divorced
• have rebellious kids who are into sex, drugs, and alcohol
• be addicted to drugs or alcohol
• be tempted by pornography
• have struggles with honesty
• question one's faith - or even God Himself
• be depressed or "blah"
• be a liberal / conservative / social democrat (or other political - or a-political - stripe)
• admit vulnerability or weakness
• watch certain kinds of movies or TV shows
• not want to be around other Christians, or at the very least, not "toe the party line"

... and the list goes on. And on.

"Interior With White Boxes" courtesy of sumetho at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The tendency to put people into categories and slot them into uniformly sized boxes that all look the same (usually the same size and shape as the one who's talking) has done more to keep many believers living in silent misery for months, years, decades. 

The truth is, some - if not most - believers DO struggle with those things. Maybe not all at once, but the fact remains that we Christians are just as broken as the rest of the world around us. The ONLY difference is that we have someone to talk to about it and to whom we can give control of it. That's it, that's all. 

And whether we do or don't pray about it and / or give control of it over to God - only impacts on our own private relationships, including the one with God. It is not my business to pronounce judgement on a fellow-believer for anything, nor is it his (or her) job to fix what ails me. We can encourage each other, true, (and if we do, let's be sure we're not secretly putting the other person down) but putting each other in a box is tantamount to putting God in a box. 

Not that we are divine by any stretch - but when we categorize and pigeon-hole each other, we're saying to God that He can't possibly use or work through this person with "Thing X" in his or her life. 

That kind of smacks of arrogance, don't you think? "Be more like me. Then God will be able to do something with you." It implies that God is unable to accomplish His will when and how He chooses.

God's a big boy. It's His job to fix people; He alone has the power to do that. He can look after things Himself; if He wants my help, He'll ask for it specifically. He can do that. He's God!

Maybe it's time I let God out of the box and stopped trying to do His job for Him. Maybe it's time I let the people I know out of the boxes I've put them into while all the while I was thinking I was "helping" them. 

And while I'm at it, maybe I'd better stop keeping myself in one too, and start believing that God can and will effect change - positive change - in my life.