My Side In Being the Prodigal Son (A parable interpretation)

I was a young man when the restlessness started. It wasn’t like a single moment of decision, but more like the first seed of doubt planted in the back of my mind. Life on the farm was steady, predictable, but it felt suffocating. My father was a good man—a just man—but he was old-fashioned. His world was one of hard work, honesty, and duty. Everything had its place, and that was good. I knew the fields, I knew the tools, I knew the seasons, and I knew that this life would eventually be mine. But deep in my heart, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to the world than this. There had to be something else. I had dreams, visions of what lay beyond the hills and the endless labor. I wanted to see the world, to feel the freedom that seemed to hang in the air every time I stood at the edge of our land, looking toward the horizon.

I wasn’t foolish. I knew my father’s expectations of me, and I knew my place. I worked alongside him in the fields, watched as he made decisions that shaped our lives, and tried to carry out his wishes to the best of my ability. But in the quiet of my thoughts, I felt the pull of something greater. I could hear the stories that traveled through the village—the tales of cities and towns far beyond the dusty roads we walked. I could hear the laughter of those who lived outside of the land, the songs of freedom that seemed so far away. Every time I saw a caravan of traders passing through, every time I heard a story of a distant place, I felt that same hunger inside of me, gnawing at me, telling me there was something more.

One day, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The thought had been growing in me for months, and I had to say it. I had to act on it. I had to leave. My heart raced with both fear and excitement as I approached my father, sitting under the cool shade of the olive tree, his hands resting on his knees. He looked at me as I came closer, his eyes soft but steady.

“Father,” I said, my voice trembling a little, “I want my share of the inheritance. I want to leave and make my own way in the world.”

The words hung in the air between us, and I saw a flicker of confusion in his eyes. But that was all. He didn’t shout, didn’t demand to know why. He simply nodded and looked down at his hands for a moment, as if considering the weight of my request. There was a pause—an agonizing silence that felt like it stretched on forever.

Finally, he spoke. “It is your portion, and you are free to go.”

His words were gentle but firm. There was no anger, no rebuke. Just a quiet acceptance that pierced me deeper than anything I could have expected. I had imagined a thousand ways this could go—anger, hurt, pleading—but instead, he simply let me go.

That night, I gathered what little I had—some clothes, a few small belongings—and set out. I didn’t tell anyone else. I didn’t even say goodbye to my brother. He would understand. He had always been the obedient one, the one who stayed close to the farm, taking care of things while I dreamed of more. He didn’t know the restlessness that churned in me. But I had to go.

The road was long and hot, stretching on endlessly beneath the unforgiving sun. As I left the familiar paths of home behind me, I felt a strange mix of freedom and fear. It was as if the weight of years had lifted from my shoulders, but the future ahead felt so uncertain, so unknown. Yet I pushed forward, eager to reach the city, to see what awaited me.

When I finally arrived in the city, I was overwhelmed. It was nothing like the quiet rhythms of home. The air was thick with the scent of spices, roasting meats, and unfamiliar perfumes. People crowded the streets, shouting to one another in a dozen different languages. The sounds of coins clinking, carts rolling, and music drifting from taverns filled the air. I was dazzled. Here, there was no need to work under the hot sun or worry about planting season. Here, there was freedom to live how I pleased, to be whoever I wanted to be.

I spent my money quickly, as if it would never run out. I bought clothes that were finer than anything I had ever seen, ate the best food at every tavern, and surrounded myself with people who seemed to understand the world in ways I had never imagined. They laughed, they drank, they told stories of places far beyond the hills, of cities filled with treasures and adventures. And for a time, I felt like I had everything I wanted.

But soon enough after a few years, the money began to run low. The friends I thought I had were nowhere to be found when I needed them. They had moved on to other people, other places, and I was left standing alone, with no way to support myself. I tried to find work, but the city had no use for a farm boy, a young man without skills. The markets were filled with men who knew the ways of the city, who had been raised in the noise and chaos. I didn’t belong here, and I felt it in every step.

I took whatever job I could find. I ended up feeding pigs—a dirty, degrading job, but it was all that was available. It wasn’t the work I had been raised to do. My hands were filthy, my clothes tattered, and my stomach growled with hunger. I had no money, no food, and no place to turn. I remember one evening, sitting in the mud, staring at the slop in front of me, wishing that I could eat it. The pigs ate better than I did. I had nothing left, and in that moment, I realized how far I had fallen. I was alone.

It was then that the memories of home came flooding back. I thought of my father—his steady hands, his patient voice, the way he had always provided for us. I remembered my brother, his quiet dedication to the family. I remembered the land, the farm, the work, and the meals we had shared. And I realized how foolish I had been to leave all of that behind.

I could never return as I had been, though. Not after what I had done. I had wasted everything. I had taken my father’s love and cast it aside like a worthless thing. But I could go back. I could beg him for work—anything. I wasn’t worthy to be called his son anymore. But maybe, just maybe, he would take me in as a servant.

The road back home was long. Every step I took seemed heavier than the one before, weighed down by the decisions I had made, the life I had abandoned. I could still see the city in my mind—its lights, its laughter, its temporary pleasures—and yet none of that mattered now. All that remained was the memory of what I had lost and the unbearable ache in my heart for the family I had forsaken.

I had once thought that the freedom I sought would fulfill me, that the city would offer me everything the farm had not. But it had not. It had stripped me bare, leaving me cold and hungry, with nothing left but regret and the distant memory of home. There was no place for me in that city, no place for me in that life. And so, I returned.

As I walked, I rehearsed the words I would say to my father, the apology I had prepared. How could I look him in the eyes after what I had done? How could I ask him to take me back? I was not worthy to be called his son anymore. All I could hope for was that he would have mercy on me, that he might take me in as a servant, someone who could work the land and make amends.

I finally reached the crest of the hill, and there it was—our land, unchanged. The fields stretched out before me, the familiar stone walls surrounding the home I had once known. But as I stood there, it hit me: I wasn’t the same person who had left. That boy was gone, and I wasn’t sure if I could ever come back to the life I had abandoned.

And then, as if the earth itself had turned beneath my feet, I saw him. My father. He was standing at the edge of the road, just outside our property, staring out as though he had been waiting for me all along.

For a moment, I froze. The emotions that rushed over me—guilt, shame, fear—were overwhelming. How could he possibly look at me the same way after what I had done?

But then he saw me. His eyes, old and weathered, widened. Without a moment’s hesitation, he ran toward me, the robes of a respected man flapping behind him. I had never seen my father move so quickly, and in that moment, I realized something that pierced my heart. He had been waiting for me. Waiting for me to come back.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t speak at first. He reached me, arms wide, and before I could say a word, he enveloped me in his embrace. I wanted to cry. To apologize. To explain myself. But the words never came. He didn’t ask why I had left, didn’t scold me for what I had done.

"Father," I managed, barely above a whisper. "I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son."

But he didn’t let me finish. He held me tighter, as if he could somehow make up for all the lost time. “Bring the best robe and put it on him," he said to the servants standing near. "Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And let us prepare a feast, for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”

Tears welled in my eyes. How could this be? After everything? After abandoning him, after wasting what he had given me, after throwing away my chance at the family I had once taken for granted? How could he love me like this?

But before I could respond, I heard the sounds of footsteps approaching, heavy and measured. My brother.

I hadn’t thought about him in all my time away, but now, seeing his figure emerge from the fields, I realized just how much I had hurt him, too. He had stayed. He had been faithful to the land, to our father, to the family. While I had gone off and squandered everything, he had been here, working, maintaining what we had built together.

At first, I saw only his confusion, the way he stopped short at the sight of our father embracing me. But that confusion quickly turned to anger. His face flushed, his hands clenched at his sides.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded, his voice rising. "Why is he being treated like this? After everything he’s done, after everything he’s wasted, you’re going to celebrate?"

I could feel the tension in the air. My brother’s anger was palpable. I wanted to say something—to explain, to apologize, to beg for understanding. But I didn’t know how to make him understand. He had stayed behind. He hadn’t chosen the path I had. He hadn’t taken the easy way out. In his eyes, I had abandoned everything, and there was no way back.

But my father, calm and steady as ever, turned to him with a gentleness that I knew well, though I had never seen it so firm. “My son,” he said, his voice soft, yet carrying the weight of wisdom and love, “you have always been with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because your brother was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”

The words hit me like a wave, crashing over me, cleansing me, and at the same time, stirring something inside. But my brother was not moved. He stood there, still angry, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, unable to hide the hurt.

“I’ve worked all these years,” he said, his voice thick with resentment. “I’ve done everything you asked of me. I’ve never once left. And this is how you repay me? You welcome him back like nothing happened? Like he never left?”

My father, as always, was patient, but there was a deep sorrow in his eyes as he looked at my brother. “Son, you are always with me. You have been faithful, and I appreciate that more than you will ever know. But your brother—he was lost. He wandered away from everything we hold dear, and now he has returned. This is not about what you have done or what he has done. It’s about what is lost being found. It’s about love, grace, and forgiveness.”

I saw the conflict in my brother’s face. His anger faltered, but it was clear that the hurt ran deep. He had never left, never sought a different life, and yet it was I, the one who had turned his back, who was now the recipient of such mercy. I had wasted my inheritance, my time, and my relationship with my father. But here I was, being welcomed back as though nothing had happened.

“You see,” my father continued, his voice unwavering, “you have always been a part of this family. Nothing changes that. But your brother—he needed to come home. He needed to find his way back to us. And now that he has, we must celebrate. For there is no greater joy than knowing what was lost has been found.”

I stood there, unable to find the right words. I wanted to reach out to my brother, to tell him how sorry I was, to beg him to understand, but I didn’t know how to make it right. I had taken so much from him, and I didn’t know if I could ever make up for it.

But my father was right. This wasn’t about what we deserved. It wasn’t about fairness or justice—it was about grace. My brother didn’t deserve the celebration any more than I did. But the truth was, none of us deserved it. We were simply loved.

And as my father turned to walk back toward the house, his hand resting gently on my shoulder, I felt something new growing inside of me: peace. Not the kind of peace that comes from having everything figured out, but the peace that comes from knowing that no matter how far we wander, no matter how much we lose or waste, love always has the power to bring us home.

I hope this message blessed you. If so, please leave a comment. I look forward to hearing from you.

Anna M. C. Hazen  2025

The image is AI generated on chatgpt.