Fake Turf Away from Home

They left early on Sunday, due to arrive home in one week. My son, Russell, didn’t stay the entire six days of church camp.

On the first full day at camp, the director C. D. Davis phoned to say my strapping 11-year-old son suffered homesickness. The director also phoned on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I’d read an article in a parent magazine, "Convert Your Kid into a Happy Camper." I’d followed nearly all the guidelines to assure a genuine, happy experience. His best friend went with him. Every volunteer knew Russell—bus driver, nurse, cooks. They were his Sunday school teachers, youth director, and friends' parents.

I’d resisted only one thing: sending his favorite stuffed animal. I didn’t put his beloved stuffed Snoopy into his duffel bag since boys can taunt mercilessly. But did he miss his Snoopy? Was that the reason he wanted to come home?

I didn’t realize the depth of his missing home until the camp letter arrived on Thursday. My cheerful kid had written on the envelope “Daddy and Momma,” scratched it out and then written “Mr. and Mrs. Messecar.” What did that mean? Detachment? I let out a mother-worry-sigh.

I unsealed the camp letter. Our big-for-his-age son, mannish in appearance—massive shoulders, near-five-o’clock shadow, had written “Dear Mommy.” He never called me mommy.

I’d only read three sentences when I discovered he’d written the sad little letter on his first night at camp instead of playing softball! What? At home, this kid slept in his mitt and cap. My worry galloped.

The letter continued in lament fashion with a few watery stains on the paper. “I wish I hadn’t come to camp. I want to see you. I wish I was dead.” To his credit, he later made the High School drama team.

The same day the letter arrived, the camp director Mr. Davis phoned again telling me he was always the first person awake at camp -- until this year. Each morning, when the director walked onto his porch, there sat my baby, waiting on his doorsteps, asking to go home.

Most kids love camp, swimming, crafts, devotional time, marshmallows and badminton. Not my son. Russell apparently was dining on misery instead of S’mores and mac and cheese. My husband said, “Russell must miss our home a lot if he wants to come home that bad.” His dad’s final word, “If he’s homesick, let him come home.” Russell rode home later that night with an adult counselor, who needed to return early to go to work.

Russell’s camp adventure reminds me of those who take greener-pasture-romps. Jesus told a story about a son who couldn’t wait to leave home. Once gone, he found the outfield to be fake turf. Money gone and at his lowest, the hungry prodigal ended up at pig troughs yearning to eat their slop. That’s when thoughts of home made a heart-call.

The errant son knew his father’s front porch had a light on, and the son backtracked. He remembered the home of his youth, and he longed to return. He remembered his forgiving, patient father who loved him. The boy who left home on a lark now wanted to return. He may have found his way home because of his father’s prayers. He may just have found his way back because a loving father had prayed day after day and night after night, “If he’s homesick, let him come home.”

May we find strength to pray the following ancient prayer for others and ourselves, when the world offers illusions of better housing than our faithful God, “One thing I ask of the LORD, this is what I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life” (Psalm 27:4).

Epiphany at a Pig Trough

Have you ever made a mess of a moment, a month or more? Most of us have.

Jesus told a compelling story about a son who deliberately walked away from his family and their values only to find that life away from genuine love is no life at all.

The son in the story is the baby of the family, who grew up in a loving home with privileges -- plenty of food, clothes, and enough honest work to earn satisfaction at the end of a day. His family had more than enough resources to meet their servant’s and their family’s needs.

But restlessness settled into this boy’s reckless heart. He wanted to move beyond Papa’s house. He asked to pre-collect on his inheritance -- he wanted now what was meant for later. He was eager to move on and travel the streets beyond his home’s white picket fence. The colorful world beckoned. Home life with all it boundaries had dulled. Open the gate. He wanted out.

His father gave him his inheritance. Like most dads, he knew that it’s impossible to create or enforce enough rules to make your child choose the best path in life. It must have hurt the father dearly to know that the coins he put in a bag for his son were the keys to possible ruin. But youthful lessons are often learned at great expense.

Foot loose and fancy free doesn’t come near to describing this young man’s romp. He traveled far away from home in distance and heart. “Friends” flocked to his money and wanted the good times to keep rolling. But one day, when the boy reached into that bag, he only felt the leather bottom. The coins had vanished. All those nights gone wild, were gone, and his new buddies had slithered off to their home pits.

A severe famine hit the land and his nothing became even less. No source of comfort. No home. No food. But hunger often aids the return of common sense. First, he needed to find a job to support his eating habit. In those days, work for party-boys was scarce, but he finally found employment feeding a herd of pigs.

His wages were meager and his stomach never stopped growling. And one day as he slopped the hogs, he looked hungrily at the abundance of their swill. That’s when he had an epiphany at the pig trough.

“How many of my father’s hired men have food to spare, and here I am starving to death!” (Luke 15:17). At that moment, he roused from selfishness to repentance. He made a conscious decision to return to his father’s house, and inquire about employment as a hired hand. In his mind, he prepared a speech and it would begin, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you….”

The near-ruin young man found his way home, and in the distance he spotted the precious white picket fence, but it was only a backdrop for the one he really longed to see. Out in the lane, running to meet him, he saw his father. And when his dad reached him, he scooped him up in a big bear hug, held his face in his hands and kissed him.

His father’s extravagant love fueled the son’s remorse, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son” But his dad didn’t want revenge or to lop off a branch of the family tree. He wanted him grafted back. With great joy, he asked his servants to bring a beautiful robe, a ring, and sandals. And he told them to prepare a feast, for a celebration was about to take place, “[T]his son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”

The entire chapter of Luke 15 is filled with coming home stories, of finding a lost sheep, a lost coin, and a lost son. And the essence of each homecoming story is God’s loving forgiveness and heaven’s rejoicing when prodigals return home.

Have you messed up for a moment or a month or more? Turn for home. Watch for the white picket fence. Watch for the Father running to scoop you up in his warm embrace.
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Dear Readers,

I appreciate all you faithful readers. I think I started emailing my newspaper column out in early 2006. Thanks bunches for sticking around. Due to a recent glitch in a list server I use, I lost nearly 2,000 addresses of folk who were getting the column. Plus the server is unable to send any mail to Yahoo users. I'll most likely seek another server soon. If you know of someone who would enjoy the column, please forward and invite them to sign up. May God shine on and through you and yours...Cathy