Rejection To One’s Son

September 17, 2012

Friends,

He waits up,
it’s late, but his knees are bent,
his face to the floor,
his Bible open.

The headlights cross the shades,
then turn off.
The father rises from his prayers
to face the wayward son.

The young man is startled,
but greets his dad cheerily.
His father remains serious, sober, sad.
Reminds his son of the warning,
the agreement. His words are strong and harsh,
but also mixed with calm love.

The son tries his excuses
as he’s always done.
He sees his mom
standing in the bedroom doorway.
“Mom?”
She shakes her head,
her expression different,
set, firm, determined.

“Do what your father says.”
Her voice is almost a whisper,
but firm.
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”

Surprisingly, the young man quietly obeys,
takes some essentials,
looks back once more,
waiting. –Waiting to hear words,
words that maybe they don’t mean it.

Nothing.
So he goes out.
The father locks the door.
The mother stands frozen.
They hear their son’s car start.
They hear their son drive away.

The man walks over to his wife.
He hugs her tightly.
Nothing is said.
They don’t trust their voices.

A kiss to him,
then silently
she goes back to their bed,
wanting too to be alone.

The man goes to the far end of the house,
to the den,
taking his Bible.
Numb with grief,
he sits for a long time.

Some whispers to God come,
Faith is still there,
Hope is not gone,
The Lord’s own strength holds him up.

The father worries
that his words were too harsh.
Compassion and wisdom swirl,
they seem to clash.
“They were My words
in you, from Me.”
The man doubts,
but then accepts.

He remembers
the times his boy and he
went fishing,
went mudding,
went hang-gliding.

Now he’s cruel,
thoughtless, perverse,
rebellious.
How could a life so beautiful
have become so ugly?

The father slips to the floor,
lays his head on the animal skin rug
and weeps…
and sobs…

The Lord sends a song.
A song of hope, of courage,
A song of worship and adoration,
A song about the holiness of God,
the splendor of His name,
the power of His Word.

The man dries his eyes.
He reaches for his Bible
and holds it close to his chest.
The Lord grants peace,
and rest, and sleep.
The man sleeps soundly,
on the rug,
clinging to the Word of God.

This is my version of the cry, the pain… but with it, hope. Many, though, with broken hearts, are enduring that mostly-silent anguish over loved ones who won’t repent. It’s an anguish that is hard to express… an ache we cannot even begin to adequately capture with a pen… a hopelessness that only prayer to God can heal.

Sincerely,
with love,
Rachel

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