He had already run down the road to greet the returning wasteful prodigal. He had already thrown the best robe around his shoulders and was now feting him with a roast calf on the spit and having all his old friends around. His youngest was home, bewildered, hosed and feted, hardly believing the turn of expectations.
But one was still lost, his firstborn who had stood by him through thick and thin, who shared his wealth, but who is noticeably absent from the lavish celebrations. Resentful, he loiters in the darkness refusing to come in.
His dad goes out to meet him and sits down on the stump next to where his eldest glowers. “Please, come home, son, and join the party!”
Read about it for next Sunday. With which son do I identify?
Wondering Pilgrim 