THE FATHER 

WHO CRIED A LOT

Once upon a time there was a father - who cried - who cried an awful lot.

His boys  - his two sons - sometimes they saw him wipe a tear or two or three off his upper cheeks - just below his eyes at times - with his knuckles - with a semi-closed fist -  but they never ask the why - the why of the cry.

If they did, they might find out - that their dad cried because they were so, so different - and so, so difficult. He cried at night - at times - because he was praying that they would get along with each other and talk to each other - but no - they rarely did.

The older one - was always so perfect - so right - never, ever, ever doing anything wrong - and squealed and tattled on his younger brother when they was young - and then a wall of ice formed - block by block between the two brothers in their teen age years.

The younger brother - was always so dumb - so stupid - pigging out - messing up - hanging with the wrong crowd - and the father would hear about it - and have to pay for damages and things he broke.

The father forgave him time after time after time - hoping this would change him - but it never seemed to work and the older brother would tell his dad, “I told you so. I told you so! He’ll never change.”

The older brother stopped hearing his father’s cries in the night. He was too into himself - too isolated to feel compassion for his father - whom he secretly thought was stupid - with the way his brother twisted his father around his finger like a ring.

The younger brother was also self centered - figuring the world - the future would come rushing up to him with all its riches.

It killed the father that day - when his youngest son - asked if he could have his inheritance now - as soon as possible - so he could travel to some far county - some great future - and celebrate life in some great foreign enterprise.

Surprise! His father said, “Yes.” After dividing up the property he gave the younger son half the family wealth.

That morning when his son left -  there was the attempted embrace by the father - but the younger son waved it off as he walked into the future with all his stuff - and his new fancy - rather fat - leather money bag.

The older brother - working in the field didn’t even say good bye - didn’t even wave goodbye. He was furious that his father would let his brother take half the family fortune and walk off into nothingness.

Good riddance - but he didn’t dream of great meals now with just he and his dad - laughing, talking, enjoying a sunset over their home and property - together.

Nope - this older brother was a cold fish - a rock - a stump in the ground - that wasn’t too alive.

The father’s tears flowed that day as he watched the back and body of his younger son grow smaller and smaller - walked further and further up the road away from their home.

The older brother never asked about his younger brother. In fact, he tried to change the subject - whenever his father asked him if he heard anything about his brother when he was with his friends.

Every night after supper the father would walk up the road to the top of a small hill and look down the road on the other side to see if his younger son might be heading home.

There were only tears - there - on the top of that hill - and he rarely saw anyone coming his way on the road heading towards him.

Most nights the father had trouble sleeping - tossing and turning where and what his younger son might be and what was happening to him. Life is not supposed to happen this way. Families are supposed to stick together.

If only mom had not died when the boys were so, so small.

The father felt like a total failure - feeling that he didn’t know how to be a father. He didn’t know how to raise his sons.

The younger brother blew his fortune as if there were holes in his fancy leather money bag. Everyone was his friend in every bar he entered.

But the bag soon became empty - and his stomach became empty - and his life became even more empty. He tried a job on a pig farm. The sight of them eating and stuffing themselves with slop - and vegetable pods - only made things worse.

He was in a nightmare - in a foreign land - in tattered clothes  - in wrinkled skin  - all alone.

Finally he woke up. He talked to himself. He came to his senses. He headed home - practicing - rehearsing - his speech. “Father I blew it - I lost it all. I was stupid. Just hire me as a hired servant - because I’m starving and I’m dumb.

That afternoon the father saw him coming over the top of the hill heading towards the house. “It’s my son.”  He screamed to the hired hands, “It’s my son!” And he ran - ran - towards his son - with tears of joy flowing down his face.

He held his son. He hugged him. He didn’t hear his son’s confession. He didn’t hear the, “Sorries!” 

He yelled to his hired hands, “Quick set up the tables. Kill the fatted lamb. Get the best of bread and wine and food. My son is home.”

He blurted out, “Put a ring on his fingers. Get him a new robe. Wash his feet. Get a pair of sandals for him. Invite all the neighbors.”

And the younger son was stunned. Tears of guilt. Tears of joy flowed down his face.”

Then the celebration began.

Meanwhile the older brother was coming from the other direction - coming towards the house and he hears music and dancing and asks one of the hired hands what was happening.

With tears in his eyes the hired hand said, “Good News! Your brother has come home and your father is throwing a great party for him. He has killed the fattest calf for him.”

At that the older brother turned around in fury. His fists became stones - ready to punch the world.

The hired hand seeing all this went and told the father who came out and pleaded with him to come to the celebration.

Lucky for those celebrating they couldn’t hear the angry words and curses the older brother screamed at his father.

“All these years I have been the good son - the perfect son - always loyal to you. All I did was work, work, work. And this son of yours - gets it all  - and wastes it all on booze and women and disasters - and you welcome him home. Are you crazy? Are you nuts? When will you ever learn?”

Tears flowed from the father. 

Silence. 

A silent scream roared through his being.  

Then he said, “My son, you are here with me always; everything I have is yours. But now we must celebrate and rejoice, because your brother was dead and has come to life again; he was lost and has been found.”

Silence…..

To be continued.

o o o o o o o

Drawing on top: Return of the Prodigal Son [1642]  Rembrandt, Tyeless Museum, Haarlem

Middle Painting: Rembrandt and Saskia in the Scene of the Prodigal Son, c. 1635, Gemaldegalerie Alte Meister, Dresden, Germany

Last Painting: The Prodigal Son [c. 1661-1669], Rembrandt, St. Petersburg, Russia.