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| Beigler House, Mother of two governors at the same time |
In many ways it made perfect sense...to
wonder about the prodigal mother. We hear about the prodigal father,
how he let the son go, and then waited, watching the horizon for the
first sight of the son. His skirts raised, ready to run. But what of
the prodigal mother? What may have happened then?
Prodigal mother dusted in the corner of
the library. Her youngest son pounced on the father, sitting with his
holy scriptures, demanding his inheritance. A defiance at his
boldness rose in her. Her man will put that young boy in his place.
Isn't that what a father should do?
No, the father quietly swallowed the
insult to them. An insult screaming Father should be dead and
Mother's home isn't good enough for the son. She lifted her
shoulders. But Father slowly counted out the money. What no pleading
to keep the boy here?
Immediately, the young man left,
obviously prepared for this moment. She speculated he stole a loaf of
bread or two from her kitchen. She leaned out the window, as he
jaunted out of sight.
She kneaded bread every day. She kept
her household with thin and tight lips. The words that did emerge
from those lips reeked of resentment. The father let the boy go. She
poisoned the older son. He ate her heart ache, wondering, too, at his
father's judgment.
Father watched every day, his heart
reaching for his son. Mother ached, but wondered at the son's
self-imposed exile. Why didn't Father keep the boy from leaving? He
could have not given him the money. He could have said, “No.” She
would have, but she had no power.
Yet, her attitude wielded power over
the older son. Her shoulders hunched. She offered no words to her
spouse. Anger built as she chewed the memory of the day the boy told
them to drop dead.
The shadows grew long each day in that
kitchen. Meals prepared, but no love in the serving. Mother resented
every day her man's decision. The plate clunked on the table without
a word from her lips. The older boy absorbed her actions.
Months go by with a bitter root
sprouting all that nasty fruit, growing in her heart. The harvest
sprung out her mouth. She spoke to her husband hardly any words, the
older son received her gall as a new food. He fed on enmity as he
worked hard, conceiving the thought he is omitted. The father shook
his head as they could not understand his love.
Father sat every night on the porch,
watching that horizon. He slowly gathered his robe around his knees,
but the nights pass with no reason to run. Mother watched with
contempt. How can he want that boy back when he allowed him to go in
the first place? She wagged her head, retiring to the guest room. The
oldest boy missed nothing. His heart filled with dissatisfaction at
his father's patience.
A day like any other dawned. Father
glanced to the horizon. The young man ate his breakfast from the
silent mother. He prepared to go out to the field to work as he did
every day. Father slipped into his study. She cleaned the kitchen and
kneaded the bread.
“Don't forget the slop to fatten the
calf,” she reminded her boy. He is a good boy, following orders.
He'd never say, “Drop dead.” like his brother did.
Mother continued to look over the
window ledge. A mixture of feelings flooded her that day. The baby
disrespected them. She sees those round eyes as a toddler stealing a
cookie, or that curly hair rushing by the window searching the skies,
thinking he could fly like the birds. A restless soul, always wanting
more than life in their home offered. A tear fell into the dish water
from a sudden crack in her heart. Could he have been tied here to her
apron strings? He never hid behind her. He boldly strutted about
chattering about the outside world. He possessed a wandering spirit.
And she discovered she loved him for who he was, finally. Was it too
late? It had been so long. Was he dead? The boy who left without
good-bye or even a turn of his head to glance back?
But she still couldn't bring herself to
tell the man of the house she was sorry. He let him go with
blessings. She closed the shutters and retired to the guest room that
had become her hollow to sulk.
One more night of watching with no
shadow on the horizon. No scurry of dust in the heat of the summer.
No dragging of a son or word of a body. Silence met them night after
night.
The evening sun filtered under her
door. The man stretched on the porch, she heard. She prayed, unlike
before, the words drifted past the ceiling. Her heart cracked a
little more. A step, then many, as they grew into running. She peered
out her window seeing her man's naked legs pumping the air. And far
off, a slim, hunched over body staggered through town. All the towns
people would see the spectacle. Pride pinned the woman in her
shelter, built that wall around her heart. The slim crack cemented
over as her husband again seemed a fool. This time in front of
everyone. She couldn't risk embracing her boy or joining in the
preparation of the feast. She couldn't forgive, and the older son
joined her, banqueted on the poison she served every night. Neither
could forgive, love nor open their arms.
It made perfect sense to wonder how we
would be in this parable. Is there a reason the mother isn't
mentioned in the Bible? Mothers can set the tone of a household. We
have to decide: Can we forgive hurts or do we cement our hearts with
bricks of resentment? We choose the food we serve at our tables.
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