Kevin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thirteenrocks) wrote2008-06-02 11:46 am
thirteenrocks) wrote2008-06-02 11:46 am
The Prodigal Son Revisited
Luke 15: 11-32
My mom cried from the moment I took down the cardboard sign, hung to the light-post outside the family home. The black lettering read: Good Luck Kevin-Your Friends. The crying didn't cease untill two hours later, when they droped me off at college.
I came back. In sorrow, in humility, longing for fresh taco's, meatloaf, and saftey.
Five years later, she cried again. When furniture was packed into the U-haul, the green corsica (Louie) was filled with my clothes, and we ventured the four hour drive, into another state. Another place.
I went back home on Saturday.
The lawn was freshly manicured, in front of the white ranch style house. I placed the parking break on, shut off the motor. Grabed the vase with freshly picked flowers from my garden, and sauntered to the front door. I looked in. Disaster.
Toys thrown about, conversation, chatter, children running about. I could look in, entry was not possible. Munchkins are best coralled behind locked doors. The ringing of the door bell alarmed.
Short, sweet, painless, unexpected. Hugs, a few crocidile tears held back, a welcome.
Tipped off my dad, prior to embarkation. Confirming that yes, indeed-I'd come home. I'd put aside the barricades: my personal issues, grievences, and other bullshit, to make peace.
Because, driving through green bluffs, small farming communities, over the river and through the woods, can be therapeutic. The mind wanders, the Civic follows the way. It knows the way. There is no navigation required. I had a "full tank and some chips".
The visit was short, uneventful, pleseant. I was able to inject a few hours of HGTV into the veins. I slept. Hung Porkchop by his feet, chased Rutabega and no-name around the house. I laughed. A little.
Motivation was simple:
Earthquakes happen. Tornados appear out of the air, and kill. Mechanical hearts don't last forever. People die. Shit happens.
And as my parents age, I realise the more time I spend with them, the more quality time I spend with them, the more I share with them, the more, the more, the MOOR-the closer I find a peace.
My mom cried from the moment I took down the cardboard sign, hung to the light-post outside the family home. The black lettering read: Good Luck Kevin-Your Friends. The crying didn't cease untill two hours later, when they droped me off at college.
I came back. In sorrow, in humility, longing for fresh taco's, meatloaf, and saftey.
Five years later, she cried again. When furniture was packed into the U-haul, the green corsica (Louie) was filled with my clothes, and we ventured the four hour drive, into another state. Another place.
I went back home on Saturday.
The lawn was freshly manicured, in front of the white ranch style house. I placed the parking break on, shut off the motor. Grabed the vase with freshly picked flowers from my garden, and sauntered to the front door. I looked in. Disaster.
Toys thrown about, conversation, chatter, children running about. I could look in, entry was not possible. Munchkins are best coralled behind locked doors. The ringing of the door bell alarmed.
Short, sweet, painless, unexpected. Hugs, a few crocidile tears held back, a welcome.
Tipped off my dad, prior to embarkation. Confirming that yes, indeed-I'd come home. I'd put aside the barricades: my personal issues, grievences, and other bullshit, to make peace.
Because, driving through green bluffs, small farming communities, over the river and through the woods, can be therapeutic. The mind wanders, the Civic follows the way. It knows the way. There is no navigation required. I had a "full tank and some chips".
The visit was short, uneventful, pleseant. I was able to inject a few hours of HGTV into the veins. I slept. Hung Porkchop by his feet, chased Rutabega and no-name around the house. I laughed. A little.
Motivation was simple:
Earthquakes happen. Tornados appear out of the air, and kill. Mechanical hearts don't last forever. People die. Shit happens.
And as my parents age, I realise the more time I spend with them, the more quality time I spend with them, the more I share with them, the more, the more, the MOOR-the closer I find a peace.
...and I truly hope you can find peace
Catching up with the jones's
no subject
Hugs, Jon