Hope of a father
by Carrie Harris

The old man stood at the edge of the clearing; watching, waiting, hoping, like he did every night. A movement on the horizon made his heart leap ... but moments later it sank, as he realised it was only an animal. Hour after hour passed, until finally he had to admit that tonight wouldn't be the night. Dejected, the old man walked home.

His son greeted him at the door. One look at his father's face told him that he had been disappointed, yet again. "I'm so sorry, Father," he said gently, as he took the old man's outer garments.

"I don't understand," the old man sighed, as he sat down. "For years I have prayed, and for years I have been sure that I've heard God say, 'soon'. Have I hoped all these years in vain?" The son shook his head slowly, and fetched a blanket. The old man lay down, and slept.

Early the next morning, the old man arose from his slumber. His son was still asleep, he would arise with the dawn. The old man donned his sandals, opened the door of the tent that was his home, and walked across the sand to his watching place, as he did every morning. Deep in prayer, he spoke to God until the sun came up. It was time to go home, to tend to the sheep, but again he was sure he Had heard his God say, "soon".

The day's work was done. It was early evening, and the old man ate his evening meal before returning to his watching place on the edge of the clearing. Soon, the meal was finished, and the old man made his way across the sand.

As the sun touched the horizon, the old man perceived a moment on the horizon. His heart leaped, his eyes focused hard on the object. The object drew nearer, the old man's heart beat faster, the object grew clearer, the old man leaped to his feet and ran toward the object, forgetting all the cultural taboo on such an action. He ran, he ran until he held in his arms his heart's desire, the substance of the years of hope, of prayer.

"My son," he wept. "My son!"

The young man in his arms pulled back, and began to speak.
"Father, I have done evil, and I have left behind your love and your teaching. I ask only that you allow me to return as a servant, and live with your servants ..." The old man put a finger to the boy's lips, stopping him mid-sentence.

"I don't care what you have done. You are my son, and you have returned. We must rejoice!"

The old man returned to the camp with the boy, who looked humbly around. The older son, the faithful son, came out from the tent.
"Oh father," he gushed, when he saw his younger brother, but his joy quickly turned to jealousy when his father ordered a servant to kill the fatted calf. "Father, here I have served you faithfully all my life, and never have you spared even a lamb to entertain my friends, yet here you kill a fatted calf for a son that has betrayed you?"

The father looked warmly into the older son's eyes.
"Son, you have served me well, and you have been faithful. All that I own is yours. However, your brother, who we thought dead, is alive, and for this we must give thanks to God!" The older boy thought hard, then smiled. His father was right; this celebration tonight was a celebration of God's faithfulness in answering prayer. He embraced his brother, and wept.