The prodigal daughter

Thursday, August 29th, 2019

Like many of Jesus’ parables, the parable of the prodigal son in the Gospel of Luke features an all-male cast.

There is the father, loving and merciful, the older son, judgmental and testy, and the younger son, thoughtless and hedonistic.

I have been encouraged by many homilists over the years to cast myself in the role appropriate to my own situation and my own behavior, with the goal of gaining insight into the practice of my faith.

In my family right now, however, the pertinent roles are female.

My husband is a loving father to our daughters, but recent family matters concern the women.

Earlier this year, I went to Mass with my sister, and prompted by the presider’s homily to cast ourselves in the Gospel drama, we talked in the car afterward.

“I’m afraid I’m the older son,” my sister said, which is how I have always characterized myself.

My lifelong struggle with being overly judgmental has yet to be won.

But then my sister said, “I’m the kid who always did the right thing, and I resented it when the kids doing the bad stuff didn’t get in trouble!”

When she was younger, she would have enjoyed seeing those misbehaving kids pay.

My heart lurched as I suddenly realized that, thanks to some parental experience with kids doing the bad stuff, I can completely identify with the prodigal son’s father.

I understand how relieved and joyful that father was to see his returning son “still a long way off” because I have been there.

My joy is tempered by the way this hopeful new chapter in my daughter’s life has given rise to some resentment among her sisters.

There was a dark time in the life of one of my daughters when I dreaded answering a call from an unknown number on my phone.

Dread is too mild a word, actually, because I was deeply afraid that some unwelcome call was going to be the notification that my daughter was dead.

A practicing alcoholic, she was out there, at the world’s mercy, her behavior rash and risky, and there was nothing I could do about it.

When the call finally came, it was less-bad news: She was not dead but in jail.

Among other charges, she had assaulted a police officer.

I suspect she survived that encounter with the law because she was a white girl rather than a person of color, a thought that fills me with both gratitude and shame.

I tell this story with my daughter’s permission because she is now sober.

She was lost and now, one day at a time, has been found.

Like the father in the story, I have surely celebrated her return from the dead.

I have wanted to put a ring on her finger and sandals on her feet.

I see with the father’s eyes.

He was merciful and compassionate, but mostly he was overcome with the relief of not having to bury a beloved child.

I get this in my bones.

But my joy is tempered by the way this hopeful new chapter in my daughter’s life has given rise to some resentment among her sisters. Continue reading