A creative writing engagement with the parable of the lost son
The day started like most days—I got up earlier than others in my household to get the water boiling. Boiling water. It seemed like I was constantly boiling water. Water for the kids to bathe. Water to wash clothes. Water to cook. But first, water to clean. Water to prepare drinks. Water fuelled the rhythms of life and work on the master’s farm, and it was my job to keep boiled water available.
So I got up like I usually did and slipped into the cooking area, trying not to wake others. These early morning hours were some of my favourite because it felt like I had the world to myself for just a few minutes. Later I would share it with family, fellow servants and even animals; but if I was lucky and quiet enough there was time in each day as the moon and the sun traded places when the world was mine alone. So little else in my life was mine alone, if I could keep a handful of minutes to myself, I would.
With a pot filled with water on the fire, I stepped outside for a minute and stretched my back as I scanned the landscape. I could just make out the master stepping carefully out of his own tent and looking into the horizon. He did that a lot—searching the horizon, analyzing every shadow or movement he could see. Today, even from a distance, I could see the weight on his shoulders and the sense the discouragement in his gaze.
But then something changed.
I don’t know what he saw, but in an instant his shoulders straightened. His hands went up to his brow as if they could extend and sharpen the scope of his focus. His back arched as he called out something I couldn’t hear.
I vaguely heard movement behind me alerting me that someone was awake, and I was vaguely aware that that the pot of water on the fire resembled bubbling hot springs. I caught glimpses of the work waiting for me. But the pressure of the wakening day faded as I watched the master hike up his robe and started what I think he thought was running down the path. A cloud of dust I hadn’t noticed began taking on shape as the master got closer. My heart rate picked up and something crashed behind me as the shape became a person.
Suddenly I registered what was happening. He was back! The one I’d watched grow up with my own kids was back. The one whose clothes I’d washed and food I’d cooked was back. The one who’d pester me with questions while I worked in the garden and who shadowed me at sunset as I walked the compound making sure wildlife couldn’t get in was back. His dust and the master’s dust blew together and tears came to my eyes as I watched father and son pull each other up from the ground in an embrace.
Another crash behind me pulled me away from the reunion up the road. “Mom, what’s for breakfast? Where are my clothes? When are you going to have time to fix the hole in my coat? I can’t find my sandals!”
I pulled my attention back to the sounds around me. Ducking back into my tent I gestured at my oldest and said, “find the big pot. We’re going to need to boil more water.”