Welcoming the Prodigal

The parable of the prodigal son has always been one of my favorite stories.  As a kid, I think I related more to the rebellious brother, the prodigal.  Not that I was rebellious, so much.  But I found comfort in the idea that no matter how selfishly I could possibly behave my parents would probably forgive me and welcome me home.  At least, the precedent for such a parental response had already been set.

As I grew, I started to relate more to the other son.  The good one.  The one who stays and keeps working in the fields, helping his father.  The one who, when the rebellious one returns, becomes resentful and angry.   His response was legitimate.  The circumstances were unfair.  And it’s not easy to forgive when it doesn’t seem that there were really any consequences.

But not until just a couple nights ago, did I ever relate to the father’s position in the story.

Our 14-year-old foster son  had been increasingly dissatisfied with some of the rules in our home.  Instead of expressing these frustrations to us, he frequently expressed them to our younger kids.  Stirring up the ranks.  Monday night, after not having slept really at all the night before, he started to escalate.  We alternated between confronting his questionable decision-making, and trying to give him space and opportunity to talk.  Ultimately, we didn’t respond the way he needed us to, and he ran away.

We notified the social workers, his counselor, and the police.  Then we sat around for quite a while, debriefing with the rest of the kids.

Our other kids were a mix of emotion.  They were relieved to have him gone, as his presence at times had been really trying.  They were saddened that he’d chosen to leave, and were worried about his safety.  All of this came out in a jumble of thoughts and explanations, concerns and criticisms, interrupting and spilling over the top of each other in no recognizable order.

We sat and listened.  We cautioned. We reminded.  We reassured.  We shared their worry, and tried to walk the line between validating their anger and also offering grace to this young man who in a moment’s impulse chose to walk away with nothing because it seemed like the best option at the time.

The next morning, when there was still no word, the kids’ reactions cemented more into anger.  They didn’t want him home.  He had rejected us.  He chose to leave.  So let him leave, they advised.  He swore at you and Dad, they argued.  None of us would ever do that.  He cussed you out and walked away.  I say he’s gone.

We listened, still trying  to walk that line between validation and grace.  And as the day progressed, and their anger overtook other emotions, something started nagging at me.  In the back of my mind.  There was  something in this series of events which was somehow familiar.

By late afternoon, our boy had been found. It became clear that he would be brought back home, which was his expressed desire.

Our other kids roared.

This was not acceptable.  He doesn’t deserve it.  He chose to leave, so let him leave.  I can’t believe you’re letting him come home when he talked to you and Dad like that, they raged.  And it was in their outrage that I finally heard the story clearly.

Our kids were voicing the outrage of the generations at this young rebellious one who had turned his back not so much on all of them, but on Geoff and me. He had disobeyed us.  Disrespected us.  That was the source of their anger.  That we would even allow him to come home was inconceivable.

The boy did come home that evening, looking frightened, humbled, and worn. We offered him a hot shower and a change of clothes, some food, and an opportunity to sit and talk.

We welcomed him home.  Not because he deserved it.  He didn’t. Not because we were rewarding bad behavior.  We weren’t. But because the precedent had already been set.  Long ago.

“And while he was still a long way off, his father saw him, and ran and embraced him.”  Luke 15:20. English Standard Version