Article April 30, 2001 Issue

Journal entries from a prodigal's mother

By Gwendolyn Joy Forest

The storm door breaks where his last box hits it on his way out. Shiny shards of glass glitter in the yard. He doesn't look back.

He left long before he left; his face had been stony and secretive for months, maybe years. Scornful of "our world," angry at our simplicity. Nothing we said or did was right. Whatever we gave him was never enough. This God we worshiped was so pathetic in his eyes. It was as if his heart had turned to stone.

I turn to my God. "He is Your child," I pray, "the object of Your love. You can go where I cannot. Please, don't let him feel alone."

Send a comment to the editors

NEXT IN THIS ISSUE

Article

THE STORY OF THE LOST SON