This son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found. So they began to celebrate. —Luke 15:24
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The darkness of night had begun to settle in. I could hardly make out the narrow roadway in front of me now. The rain had stopped, but water drops still fell from the trees that loomed over me. It had been a long time since anyone had cut back the shrubs and grasses bordering the path. They pressed in against me now as if to block my way forward.
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“Why did I come?” I wondered, “I’ve been away too long. If they remember me at all, will they want to see me? Why would they?”
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There on the gravel pathway, I stopped, stood still, remembered. I remembered stubborn actions, appeals for change, angry words, quarrels stopping just short of blows, a final, grimly silent parting.
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I turned on my heels and began the backward trek. Only a few steps down the road I stopped again. There were other memories. I thought of family laughter by the fire with friends, warm meals, kind words, early acceptance and approval.
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“All that is gone for many years,” I thought, “and yet…”
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I turned again and followed the path to its end. In the faint light of the moon the old house looked unchanged. I heard no sound. The upstairs windows were dark. I came closer. I thought a faint light gleamed in the living room.
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I stepped onto the porch and knocked gently on the door.
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Help me, Lord, in this holiday season, to put aside the past, to mend lost friendships as best I can, to welcome old friends who turn to me.
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Guy Johnson
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