My Prodigal Son

True confession: I have always loathed the prodigal son- not just the story, but the actual fictitious, pig-food- eating, New Testatment libertine of parable fame. As expected, I am a first-born- an elder child who loves rules and justice and piety.  Save your smug criticism- I am getting to the self-deprecating part.

So, to purge my pious pride, I delved into Tim Keller's Prodigal God to find a cure for my sanctimonious self.  No luck.  While my love for the brilliantly insightful Keller was enlarged, my contempt for the dissolute prodigal stubbornly remained. In fact, I am even more convinced that he must be a liberal  :)

Until Caid. Until Tonight. Until dinner.

It was a typical day with my dimunitive, defiant deviant.  No, he would not wear my suggested outfit. No, he would not put away his toys. No, he would not finish the breakfast of champions (chocolate-chip pancakes). No, he would not stop biting his sister.  And NO,  he refused to ever, EVER, ever use the potty. 

Then, he pulled a new stunt at TJ Maxx and . . . disappeared.  Meanwhile, I literally ran around screaming his name like a typical *classy* guest on Jerry Springer.   Caid, once apprehended, began crying- but not in fear at nearly losing me forever.  Through his whimpering tears, he explained, "I don't want a hard spanking." Naturally, I soothed him, "Kincaid, darling, you won't get a hard spanking for deliberately running away from Mama....not in the store anyway. We'll wait until the car."  Then, later today, Caid quietly opened and unwrapped an entire package of bandaids. . . subterfuge is his game. Caid is his name.  

And ironically, this was a good day with my toddler trojan horse. 

Final Act: The battleground of dinner. I braced myself for the antics of Caid- who the previous evening barely escaped with his little life after  launching his plate of pasta across the room.  However, tonight, there before my disbelieving eyes calmly sat my prodigal son who *non-violently* consumed his entire meal to include green vegetables. *Cue the thunderous applause. We could not stop commending his very ordinary, civilized behavior.  Dare I say it- but to the slaughter went the fatted calf.

Then, a squeeky voice broke through the din of celebration. My elder daughter prompted, "I ate all my dinner too!"  We mustered a lackluster "Great job, Eowyn" to reward the faithful eating of our eldest.  But, that's just it. It was a repeat performance. An encore in excellence.  She always eats (and generally without violence or complaint.)  That is when it hit me: This is why the Father so rejoiced over his youngest son's homecoming.  Yesterday, the prodigal had been throwing his food around a pigsty, but this night, he finally came home to a enjoy an ordinary, civil family dinner. 

It wasn't a golden ring or 1st century "robe couture" but it was a decadent brownie- arguably larger than his entire Lightning McQueen dinner plate- that I found myself placing before my prodigal boy.  And for the first time ever, I considered the possibility that the prodigal wasn't just a philandering profligate- but maybe just my own tiny, tyrant Caid-bug, whom I couldn't love more.