Raising A Fatted Calf

They had a fatted calf to slaughter at the feast when the Prodigal Son returned only because the father and brother and other people in the story kept on working the farm and going about their business while the lay-about partied in that far country.

Sunday, Ginny and I visited a new city park I’d not been to before and as we drove we discussed the decision of our youngest daughter to abandon our family and move to south Florida with some friend. We suspect drug dependency has a lot to do with her choice.

The main topic of our conversation rehashed what we might have done differently when she was a child or teenager. Her behavior pattern has gone on and escalated for almost 15 years now. I tend to blame myself for failing her in some fundamental area as I grieve at what I see as her path to self destruction.

Ginny says that’s nonsense; we did the best we could with what we had at the time; there’s little we should feel guilty about.

Patricia appears to be extremely smart. She displays many talents and demonstrated great creativity. Ginny and I reminisced about the steamer trunk Patricia transformed into a work of art, about the birdcage she decorated with a statue of Venus and vampire teeth, about the skirt she sewed out of my old neck ties. The child has a knack for creating beautiful things.

Yet, either drugs or demons or mental problems or just pure rebellion destroy her, make her miserable, and cause her to cast aside college, friends and family.

She will turn 28 years old later this month.

Ginny reminds me that I am not the savior of the world, Christ is.

I want to jump in and fix things, straighten it all out, make it better.

This time I can’t.

It appears that I have a dad’s most painful duty — letting go. Watching from the sidelines as one of my children circles the drain.

By her own choice.

Wonder if God The Father ever watches me feeling that same way?

Jesus told the story of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11) emphasizing the joy of welcome when the Prodigal came to himself among the pig husks in that far country and returned home. But the subtext of the story reveals how the Prodigal’s action damaged the older brother, the father, the whole household.

I wish Jesus had elaborated.

Our daughter Eve, the librarian/poet, announced a change to a job following her heart. I’m proud of her. She’s had three job offers but is taking a lower place in the system because her heart lies in children’s work instead of administration. Good for her!

Our daughter-in-law Helen faces surgery soon; she goes in for a consult today and has posted a sonogram of her insides on her blog. Ginny attends a seminar on retirement this morning. Donald continues to render and stand as the backbone of our family. Jennifer continues to be Jennifer, our butterfly, and provide comic relief.

Yesterday I resumed work on my book about the history of firefighting in Jacksonville. And Barbara White came over to correct proofs of the second book in her Along The Way series; she’s proofing the text in the waiting room during her daughter’s chemotherapy treatments.

We are all wounded but moving ahead; we’re raising a blue-ribbon fatted calf to barbeque — with, or without, our Prodigal.

Thanks be to God.