Yesterday we read Boy Meets World, ie, the Parable of the Prodigal Son. (http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Luke%2015:11-32&version=NIV)
Blah until proven unblah. I thought for a second about good story telling. What makes Shakespeare Shakespeare? What makes the stories of Cinderella and Rapunzel as magical now as they were a hundred years ago?
We identify with them. We become invested in characters because we see traces of ourselves in their joys and sorrows and fears and hopes. These are human things and as it turns out, humans haven't changed a whole lot across the centuries.
Jesus knew how to tell stories. We were asked to write our own versions of the story, and here is mine.
* * *
Sometimes I am the lost brother. I love the idea of being independent, of taking off into the wild world with all the gusto, enthusiasm and fervor that is in my young, if admittedly naive self. So I go. I pack my things and pluck the pen of authorship from Abbai's hands with a quick smile and a Thank you and I am off.
curled up and broken because I can't dance anymore.
My joy is gone.
I come home, into the presence of my father - I dare not call him Abbai now - with hands behind my back and my eyes to the ground. I mumble an apology.
He sighs - a sigh of relief, exasperation and love - much like my mother does when she catches wind of adventures of the thoughtless variety. He lifts my face to face his. I still can't quite meet his eyes but I see that smile I know so well. For a moment I am almost angry - why is he letting it go this easily?
But then I am suddenly weak, suddenly aware of how tired and small I am. I hold the pen out to him, my hands are smeared with ink. He takes it back with a smile and a Thank you. My hand feels weightless suddenly in his.