A few years ago, while I was on retreat at Camp Mitchell, and the weather was just perfect for leaving the door and windows open all night, I was awakened by the predawn chill of the mountain mist blowing across my face. For those who may not have had the opportunity to have visited Camp Mitchell, it sits on the bluffs of a plateau on Petit Jean Mountain about an hour west of Little Rock. The vista from my room in Grace Lodge overlooked Ada Valley, several hundred feet below the rim of the bluff. It is a serene and rural valley, cut out from the mountain ages ago by the meanderings of the nearby Arkansas River. The beauty of the mountaintop retreat is inextricably linked to the valley below it—two parts of the whole—a holy place for me since I first went there as a child.

 

So when I awoke on this particular March morning in the predawn hours to an open window, the distant flickering of headlights way down in the valley caught my eye, and I watched the movements for the longest time. I, who have spent so much time above this valley but so little time in it, wondered what kinds of homes these people were leaving…and where were they heading.

 

I imagined some to be farmers, rising in the twilight to begin another day of dutifully tending their herds. And indeed I saw some vehicles move only short distances before the lights disappeared. I pictured a crusty farmer in overalls coming upon one of his heifers in the midst of birthing a calf, and he would become the silent assistant, a faithful midwife in his own right.

 

The lights of other vehicles made their way along the main road to the easternmost outlet to the valley. I suspect that they were on their way to work, at 5am. In my mind’s eye, one was a nurse heading to the hospital a half hour away, where she would begin yet one more shift in a countless string of shifts. Another was a factory worker, beginning the drive to Little Rock, an hour away, because that was the closest place he could find work.

 

At some point in my predawn watch, my eye caught up with one car that was also making the trek out of the valley, but even from my distant vantage point, I could see that he was racing down the country road. Where was he going in such a hurry? Or what was he fleeing in such a hurry? I know that this serene valley straddles the line between Conway and Perry County—and this region has been ravaged by the haunts of the methamphetamine epidemic, and so I could see him completing a night of manufacturing in some little country house, and then speeding away to make a delivery. Or perhaps he simply drove at a rate that matched his heart rate, cranked up from the speed in his system.

 

Who are these people, and what are their lives like? How are their lives connected to one another? Are they happy? Are they at peace? Or are they tormented by demons that howl at them all night, as the coyotes do from the mountain rim?

 

My friends, I have been listening to and studying this story of the prodigal son since my childhood, and I must confess that I have always identified with the elder son—the nice box of black and white is my comfort zone. My life experience has not included the wild run of the prodigal. And although I am a father, I have not experienced the loss of the beloved child who has disappeared from my life. Mine has been the life of puttering around the proverbial farm of righteousness, tending to that which I have always thought I was supposed to be tending.

 

But, on this particular morning, from my celestial perch high above the valley in which the story was being lived out at the beginning of another day, I had an epiphany, and I whispered to myself—it’s not that simple. My wanderings of mind intersected with this parable—perhaps the most familiar of them all, and I whispered to myself—it’s not that simple.

 

Who is lost? Well, surely we can say that the one who has become trapped in the quagmire of drugs is lost, and while the high may seem rich and satisfying now, the days are surely coming when the pig sty will seem comparably better.

 

But then my mind wove the stories of the strangers together, (although surely we all know these people), and I found myself thinking there is more than one way to become lost. And I saw the fact that the drug-runner was racing this morning toward a drug deal, but for years now, he has been fleeing from the horror of that day on the farm. He was ten when it happened, hanging out with his best friend after school, when his friend’s fathertook him behind the barn. He told his parents, but for fear of shame on the family, they told him to get over it…move on. And so he did, and he’s been running ever since—only he is in strange lands now, and he is tired, so tired of running.

 

Meanwhile, his mother, the nurse, leaves for work the same way she does each morning—in the dark, and alone. Her marriage ended three years after “the incident” that was never spoken of again—her son left three years after that, dropping out of school. She hasn’t heard from him in more than a year now, even though she knows he lives in the valley still. And so she goes to the hospital each day where she cares for people in their time of need—if she can just be kind to enough people, may, just maybe, the ache in her heart will subside.

 

When she gets to the stop sign at the end of the valley, she will turn north on Highway 9. Her ex-husband, the factory worker, makes his way minutes later from his home in the valley, but he will turn south on highway 9, toward Little Rock—toward  the paycheck that will buy the beer he will drink tonight while watching television.

 

And the farmer? Well, as he gets out of the truck to tend to the heifer giving birth, he begins another day of tormented existence on the farm where he committed the horrible act, and then threatened to kill the boy if he ever told anyone. There is no peace to be had here; but it is all he knows, and so he will stay, and will rise early again tomorrow after another restless night in which the demons howl over his head.

 

What none of these lost souls knew was that on this morning, eyes followed their movements (my eyes), and searched their hearts, and my heart ached for them, for their brokenness. I longed for their healing, I prayed for their reconciliation and forgiveness. And I envisioned a time and place where they could all experience the gift of being greeted with open arms, of being healed of all that was past, of knowing how much they were loved. Would it be possible, then, for them to begin to love themselves enough to open up to the possibility of loving each other too?

 

I don’t know, but I am hopeful that there is a time and a place when that will happen—for them, and for all of us. Perhaps the Parable of the Prodigal Son is a misnomer—perhaps we should call it the Parable of the Reconciled Family, since that is what Jesus seemed to be more interested in. Reconciliation...forgiveness...even as difficult and counter-cultural as they are.

 

My friends, we are all lost, we are all broken. We take different journeys to get to the point of recognizing that fact—some take longer than others, some take more painful treks, but the story does not end with the son getting his just rewards, does it?…it ends with a banquet thrown by the eternally hopeful father of us all, who stands ready to run and greet us with open arms, to shower us with love, to encourage us to accept that love so that we can love ourselves and one another. 

 

Can we feel the eyes of one watching us—not in contempt or preparation of punishment, but the eyes of one who longs expectantly for us to turn, to return. A heart that aches for us and with us in our pain. A love that leans forward, ready to dash to us with open arms, and glee. My child was lost, but has been found. She was dead, but is alive again.

 

And the heavenly hosts rejoice in the delight of God, the feast is prepared, and we, my friends, have been invited.

 

Won’t you come?