The Prodigal Son, uh, Daughter
There is always a new sermon that tries to highlight a never-before-highlighted perspective in the parable of the prodigal son. In truth, I often struggle with the story, sometimes more than others, but those struggles aren’t relevant to me at this moment. Why? you ask. Because I am feasting like the son who has returned!
For Christmas, I came north to visit my parents and soak up some R&R. I left after school last Friday, made several stops along the way, checking items off my to do list as I drove. (Not literally as I drove. I don’t think.) I arrived at the edge of Georgian Bay in the dark, more exhausted than I can describe. One, my brain is insufficient to gather the right words. Two, that seems like a lifetime ago. Since the moment I arrived, I have been pampered. My favourite foods, plus a few yummy surprises. Fancy drinks from my dad’s new Tassimo machine (he bought a big pack of chai latte packets and Cadbury’s hot chocolate just for me!). A fluffy duvet and en suite bathroom. Late sleep ins. Morning runs. Warm blankets by the fire. A messy pile of knitting in the living room. My own arm chair. Long reading sessions by the Christmas tree. And, starting yesterday, snow! My parents have been consciously spoiling me. And, it is fantastic.
Is this how the prodigal son – let’s call him Son – felt? Son works hard as a slave to far away landowners until he can’t take it anymore. He’s hungry. He’s tired. He’s done. He can do no more. Son heads home and finds Pop up late waiting for him. Pop gets out the good stuff and lights the barbeque.
“Sit down, Son! You don’t need to get that.” And, Pop goes off to refill the wine carafe.
A long time ago, good people taught me a little bit about receiving. It can be hard. On other days, however, it can be the easiest thing I can imagine. Some people might call me spoiled, but I think that my ability to receive this week was a greater gift to my parents than stubborn insistence that I cook and clean and “pull my own weight.” I think it was much better that my mother saw her little girl relax with every bite of Irish stew and fresh bread. I think that my gratitude was more than enough the night that I arrived. I can’t think of anything that they wanted to see more.
Since then, I have been more helpful with the dishes and food preparation, but their goal is still to pamper me until I am revived back to consciousness.
As with all things, I learned a little more about God through my experiences this week. When we are brought back to life, those are the best moments we have to offer. I absolutely believe that the times that we shift gears from survive to thrive, He is smiling – beaming! – at us the way my parents did when I helped myself to a sizeable portion of stuffing at Christmas dinner with a grin on my face. They saw life in their little girl and knew that the tide had turned.
I couldn’t turn that tide on my own. All I could have done by working harder is swim farther out into a rip tide and gotten sucked under. We need to let Him do it. I don’t always know how to do that, and I very often fight to retain control, but what I really want is for Him to take over. I want to receive. I want Him to turn the tide. I can’t give you any good tips on how to do that (except for the cliches), but I think that the first step is being OK with just being. That means, for those who haven’t caught on, not doing. Take some time to be. And realize that you are still worth knowing and loving, even if you don’t accomplish everything on your to do list.
And, if you still struggle, call up your mom and ask her to make Jig’s Dinner. It always makes me feel better.
jenbatt 