Editor’s Note: The following post was published on The Walk To Remember in 2018. It has been reformatted to this website.

I am uncertain as to the validity of this story. My parents struggle to recall it ever taking place, yet I am certain that someone in my family had borne witness to what had happened. Either that or it was a vivid dream. One that mimicked reality so well that it had forever branded itself into my mind. I don’t recall much, seeing that my age at the time warranted a vague picture. All I have are pieces and uncertainty. The only thing that is certain, however, is that the video has played over and over again within my head ever since I can remember.

I was somewhere between a toddler and kindergartener. Such would be labeled a “preschooler” these days. However, this was a different time. A time where only a select few attended such and the majority were left in a state of confusion, trying to reason within their thought patterns as to what a “preschooler” actually is. We were in Tennessee visiting family. Sevierville comes to mind, or at least the general vicinity. I recall a lake. Everyone was fishing. Who exactly is “everyone” I do not know. However, I can guarantee blood relation. I remember a mud pit. This should not be confused with a mud puddle, which is nothing more than dirty water. No. This was straight thick muck and was covered in flies, swarming around their treasure like life depended on it. I remember looking at this daunting cesspool, intimidated by its sheer disgust and swarming guests. Then there was a skip in the disc. A damaged place in the tape. Because the next thing I remembered I was sitting in the pit, covered in not just mud, but angry flies whose peaceful world had just come crashing down with the introduction of a clumsy giant. I remember screaming and crying, probably more so because of the flies. Someone ran to my aid. I can still see him in my mind’s eye, but who it is I have no clue. It took a while for comfort to return to silence the tears. Was it real? Was it a dream? That I am not sure of. However, whatever it was had traumatized me enough to repeat itself for thirty-five years.

I am certain that the Prodigal Son can relate to my predicament (Luke 15:11-24). We’re not certain as to what motivated him to leave his father’s house. Maybe he was discontent with the blessings, protection, and comfort that had been within his grasp day by day? Maybe curiosity had bested him and he truly desired to see if the grass was greener on the other side? Maybe he truly believed that the world offered a better meal at its banquet table? Did he catch wind from the outside world that he was living in boring confinement, that “true living” was just beyond the walls? Beloved, can we relate?

What about the Christian whose heart grows cold and becomes indifferent to their Savior? It can be something as simple as turning to entertainment above time in the Word and prayer. Or it can be something so great as a complete turning away from the faith. The latter reminds me of Christian youth that finds their education in the secular public school system. They are exposed to worldviews that deny and mock the Holy. They spend their time with others who do not believe, yet hold influence over their peer pressure. Biblical actions become unbiblical. They struggle with what is true and who is correct. When the time comes and adulthood dawns on them, we should not be surprised when they turn their back on God, as if to say (like the Prodigal) “I wish my Father were dead”. Boring minds breed boredom as the simple truths of Christ are no longer satisfying. Entertainment has to permeate worship, sparking “excitement” which is the new food to feed a weary soul. What would they do then if they were to awake on a deserted island, only to have a lone a cappella voice as the foundation for their worship?

There are certain degrees of the Prodigal. From “finding God” in the fleeting and fleshy things of this world, to altogether turning away. Sometimes one feeds the other. It should come as no surprise that inevitably we end up sitting in the mud pit, covered in angry flies. We lose sight of the beautiful lake and its surrounding Great Smoky Mountains, and in its stead focus on the mud. Our gaze draws us nearer to the temptation until there is a skip in the disc or a twist in the tape. Until we find ourselves in the pit asking “How did I get here?”

The father of the Prodigal Son! He was not bustling about his home, startled by the presence of his son in the corridor. He did not tell his child that he had become just a memory to him. No. He saw his son from afar. He was watching… and waiting. He knew that his flesh and blood would return to him after he had his epiphany. After he had realized that the rancid meat and spoiled milk of the world were no longer worth feasting upon. After he had realized that the grass on the other side was in fact scorched and overshadowed by weeds. After he had realized that “true living” was in fact a veil for death itself.

This Jewish father did not mind that his son had happened upon his presence still soiled with mud and covered in the swine’s contamination. He did not tell his son to depart and return only after he had cleaned himself. No. This father embraced his son, thus taking the mud and contamination upon himself. He did not ask his son where he had been, or what he had done. There is no record that he even scolded his son in a verbal or physical sense. He knew that the world would burn his son. He knew that his son would awaken to the truth that life in his father’s house was a life worth living. That the “true living” of the world was a lie and paled in comparison.

Aren’t you glad that we too have a Father who is more concerned about our return than where we have been? Aren’t you glad for a Father that provides a sanctuary to return to? Aren’t you glad for a Father that will take upon Himself our sins when, like sheep that have strayed, He welcomes us back into the fold? Aren’t you glad for a Father who does not ask us to wash ourselves to be acceptable, but accepts us and washes us…

…by the blood of The Lamb?

“Then He came to Simon Peter. And Peter said to Him, ‘Lord, are You washing my feet?’ Jesus answered and said to him, ‘What I am doing you do not understand now, but you will know after this.’ Peter said to Him, ‘You shall never wash my feet!’ Jesus answered him, ‘If I do not wash you, you have no part with Me.’ Simon Peter said to Him, ‘Lord, not my feet only, but also my hands and my head!’ Jesus said to him, ‘He who is bathed needs only to wash his feet, but is completely clean; and you are clean…’” (John 13:6-10, NKJV).