Me Telling My Kids The Same Story My Dad Told Me

A man had a son. He didn’t have much to give, but he gave what he could. The father had always been present, as the best version of himself he was capable of being at the time. He made mistakes and always tried to learn from them and pass along what he learned. He gave his son the best parts of himself. And tried to warn him of the worst. 

When he reached a certain age, the son questioned the father. He took all the father had given, and he went and lived his life. As he aged and as life’s experience beat upon his understanding of the world, he realized how badly he’d misunderstood his father’s gift. How he’d allowed other voices and other influences to lie and steal the truth of the gift.

After a time, the boy, now an older man, thought much of the time he’d missed with the father. And he decided to go back home. When he was a way off from the house, he saw a tiny figure standing at the end of the drive. As he drew near, he saw it was the father. The father had never left. Never stopped looking. Never stopped waiting for his son to return. 

The son marveled at how his father welcomed and embraced him and never said a word about a single day the son had been gone. What mattered to Dad, was that his son was home.

My dad used to tell me this story all the time. Now I understand why. So I will tell it to my children until the fog of growing up and dust of life begins to clear.  No matter how long it takes .

Luke 15:11-32