Prodigal People

(an update for those who have prayed with us for reconciliation of a father and a son)


Tonight for the first time, we can picture what he is doing.
the boy,
who sits drawing
at his kitchen table or on his bed.

For the first time, we know he wonders
about you
and how he may resemble you.
Did you (his father) like to draw?
he asked his mother.
His mother said she didn't think so.
But some day we hope he learns
that his half-brother draws
even if his mother and father don't.

Small things,
but huge
in the former context of hopelessness.

I think of a photo:
you holding him
when he was newborn.
Like all infants, he carried no distinction
but that which showed in the expression
of one who gazed upon him.

I didn't love myself enough back then
to see what your face was saying to the child.
I just felt threatened.
And you didn't love yourself enough back then
to trust me--or even yourself--
with the full knowing.
You just felt threatened.
But we are different now.

And so you had coffee with his mother this morning.
Do you ever remember when some good things happened?
you asked, and then gave
a tangible example of something long-gone.
A small thing; but still, her eyes grew distant,
and her remembering was not bitter.
So maybe she, too, is loving herself a little more.

And the pictures you have now are ones she just gave you,
ones he drew
...maybe even for you.

Small things,
but huge
in the former context of hopelessness.