When the younger son came home, I was the first to see him.
That morning, while sweeping wheat husks off the front path, I spotted the shape of someone walking up the road—slow, like he didn’t really want to be seen. We hadn’t seen that boy in years. My name is Abi. I’ve worked in the fields for Master Eli since I could carry a basket, and I was here the day his younger son left, demanding his part of the inheritance as if his father were already dead. I watched Master Eli’s hands tremble as he handed it over. That boy didn’t even look back.
No one expected him to return. People whispered about how he’d used all the money on wild living—clothes, drink, and worse. He’d gone to a far-off land and vanished. His older brother—and everyone else—said he was probably dead by now.
But that day, as I stood by the well with my bucket, I saw the dust rising from his feet. His clothes were in tatters. His face was thin, like he hadn’t eaten in days. His eyes were tired, but there was something in his expression—a mixture of shame and hope.
I dropped the bucket. “Master!” I called into the house. “Someone’s coming!”
By the time Master Eli reached the road, his son had fallen to his knees in the dirt, sobbing. “Father,” the boy cried, “I’m not worthy to be called your son. Just let me be a servant in your house—please.”
My hands froze over my apron. I expected anger, maybe a lecture. After all, that boy had shamed his family, wasted everything, and vanished like he didn’t care.
But that’s not what happened.
Master Eli ran. Not walked—ran. His sandals kicked up stones as he rushed down the path. He threw his arms around his filthy, ragged son and kissed his head like he’d just been born. We all stared.
“Get a robe,” Master Eli shouted, laughing through tears. “The best one! And bring a ring, and sandals—my son needs shoes!”
Someone stumbled off to the storage chest. A servant ran to grab the calf we’d been fattening for a festival. The whole courtyard burst into motion.
“But Master,” I asked later, still stunned, “aren’t you angry?”
He looked at me and smiled. “Abi,” he said kindly, “he was lost—and now he’s found. What else matters?”
That night, we danced. Even I joined in, though I usually hide during celebrations. The stars came out, and laughter rippled across the hillside like wind through wheat. But not everyone was happy.
The older son—he wouldn’t even come inside.
I found him pacing near the barn, fists clenched. He grumbled, “I’ve worked all these years. Never left. Never wasted anything. And he gets a feast?”
Master Eli came out to meet him, just like he’d run to meet the younger one. “Son,” he said softly, “everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate. Your brother was dead—now he’s alive. He was lost—now he’s found.”
I saw the older son’s shoulders slump, his anger wrestling with his heart. I don’t know if he ever danced that night. Maybe not.
But I did.
Because I realized something: forgiveness isn’t fair—it’s better than fair.
That day, I saw what kind of Father we have. The kind who doesn’t wait for us to clean up before He runs to meet us. The kind who calls you “son” even when you feel like a servant.
I used to think people had to earn their way back. Now I know the truth.
Sometimes grace runs down the road faster than you do.
When the younger son came home, I was the first to see him.
That morning, while sweeping wheat husks off the front path, I spotted the shape of someone walking up the road—slow, like he didn’t really want to be seen. We hadn’t seen that boy in years. My name is Abi. I’ve worked in the fields for Master Eli since I could carry a basket, and I was here the day his younger son left, demanding his part of the inheritance as if his father were already dead. I watched Master Eli’s hands tremble as he handed it over. That boy didn’t even look back.
No one expected him to return. People whispered about how he’d used all the money on wild living—clothes, drink, and worse. He’d gone to a far-off land and vanished. His older brother—and everyone else—said he was probably dead by now.
But that day, as I stood by the well with my bucket, I saw the dust rising from his feet. His clothes were in tatters. His face was thin, like he hadn’t eaten in days. His eyes were tired, but there was something in his expression—a mixture of shame and hope.
I dropped the bucket. “Master!” I called into the house. “Someone’s coming!”
By the time Master Eli reached the road, his son had fallen to his knees in the dirt, sobbing. “Father,” the boy cried, “I’m not worthy to be called your son. Just let me be a servant in your house—please.”
My hands froze over my apron. I expected anger, maybe a lecture. After all, that boy had shamed his family, wasted everything, and vanished like he didn’t care.
But that’s not what happened.
Master Eli ran. Not walked—ran. His sandals kicked up stones as he rushed down the path. He threw his arms around his filthy, ragged son and kissed his head like he’d just been born. We all stared.
“Get a robe,” Master Eli shouted, laughing through tears. “The best one! And bring a ring, and sandals—my son needs shoes!”
Someone stumbled off to the storage chest. A servant ran to grab the calf we’d been fattening for a festival. The whole courtyard burst into motion.
“But Master,” I asked later, still stunned, “aren’t you angry?”
He looked at me and smiled. “Abi,” he said kindly, “he was lost—and now he’s found. What else matters?”
That night, we danced. Even I joined in, though I usually hide during celebrations. The stars came out, and laughter rippled across the hillside like wind through wheat. But not everyone was happy.
The older son—he wouldn’t even come inside.
I found him pacing near the barn, fists clenched. He grumbled, “I’ve worked all these years. Never left. Never wasted anything. And he gets a feast?”
Master Eli came out to meet him, just like he’d run to meet the younger one. “Son,” he said softly, “everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate. Your brother was dead—now he’s alive. He was lost—now he’s found.”
I saw the older son’s shoulders slump, his anger wrestling with his heart. I don’t know if he ever danced that night. Maybe not.
But I did.
Because I realized something: forgiveness isn’t fair—it’s better than fair.
That day, I saw what kind of Father we have. The kind who doesn’t wait for us to clean up before He runs to meet us. The kind who calls you “son” even when you feel like a servant.
I used to think people had to earn their way back. Now I know the truth.
Sometimes grace runs down the road faster than you do.
