Compassion can be sweet when needed

I sat in church Sunday listening to the preacher’s words about the popular Bible story, “The Prodigal Son,” with fascination as he hammered home points I’d never thought of before. There was so much richness and depth as he talked about this lost boy who had taken his family for granted and said, “I want my inheritance now. Forget you, father.”

It made me stop and think about the times that I’ve forsaken my family because I thought I knew a better way to live. And I thought about those moments when I really knew I needed a father.

One word this pastor said about the father’s reaction to his son coming back home was: compassion.

I’ve been near homelessness before, I’ve wondered where I’d get my next meal, I’ve gone hungry. I’ve been car-less, making a long walk to work or the store, wondering, how did I let it get like this?

And then I thought about my “father’s house” or home–that place where you know that you belong. I’m a foreigner to Enterprise, but as I’ve written before, I’ve found a home here.

I remember being in Orlando, struggling to make ends meet, lucky to get a meal a day and when I thought of home I thought of Enterprise, the winding green pastures, the cow fields and my father-in-law’s (just Mr. Scott back then) horses and garden. Peace would always come over me when I thought of him and one day I decided to give him a call.

He helped me get my car fixed. He listened to me when I was down and out, crying out about the pain and suffering that I felt as life’s fists began to beat me down. And some months removed from one of the lowest points in my life he amazingly cared enough to believe that I could be worthy of marrying his baby girl. This man whose background he knew was less than glamorous, he welcomed into his family with open arms and always called son. Isn’t it sweet to find compassion when you need it?

There are prodigal moments that we are all faced with, where we wonder whether the values we are instilled with, the things that we are raised on or even the faith we were given is really valuable.

Like a sweet song in the night calling us to conform there are those philosophies and conventions that rail against that familiar voice in us that calls us toward home.

There’s an old story that I don’t remember very well. It’s the one about a man who died in a blizzard, just a few feet away from his front door. What I remember is he had attached to him a rope to navigate himself back to his home but somehow he got disconnected from it and scrambles futilely to reach the warmth of home, his safe place. I’ve butchered the story, but it goes something like that.

What was the man doing out in the blizzard in the first place? I don’t remember. In those prodigal moments I don’t remember exactly what it is that causes me to want to live outside of the places where I’m loved, welcomed and accepted, those places I like to call homelands.

That preacher mentioned the school of hard knocks. The Prodigal Son’s father didn’t want him to attend that university, and for good reason. Many never graduate from it. It costs them their lives where they end up dead or in jail.

But how great it is to find compassion in the midst of your wandering and a father who welcomes you home.

To all the father’s out there, happy belated Father’s Day, and to that preacher, thank you for the insight.

Chandler Collins is a staff writer for The Southeast Sun and Daleville Sun-Courier. The opinions of this writer are his own and not the opinion of the paper. He can be reached at (334) 393-2969 or by email at [email protected].