There's been a conflict. A relational breakdown. An offense given. And an offense taken.

So, who are we this time? Prodigal? Father? Or Elder Brother?

Ouch!!!

The Parable of the Prodigal Son (The Gospel of Luke 15:11-31) is a comforting tale for those of us who have fallen away from our faith at one time or another. The story demonstrates the heart of the heavenly Father for redemption, at any price. The only catch, the only requirement: the prodigal has to want it. The prodigal has to humble himself (or herself), openly confess the sin, and ask for reconciliation, prepared to accept whatever consequences are appropriate.

When I am a prodigal, I am so grateful for the Father’s response--he not only welcomes the prodigal home, but restores his place in the home (with a ring and a coat), then throws a party! And I find the older brother’s stance (cold, distant, unwilling to join the party) so…stinging…so judgmental and unforgiving. Sooooo wrong!

When I am NOT the prodigal, I find it is easier to be like the Father when I haven’t been hurt directly by the prodigal’s offense. I can smile and embrace and join in the celebration. And be grateful.

But when the prodigal steals some of “my” reward or some of what I “deserve,” well, ha-ha-ha, I feel quite justified in reminding the Father of what is right and what is, well, just not!

And oops—I am the elder brother.

The first time I was introduced to the notion that I have a choice as to which role to play in the story was when I read Henri Nouwen’s book, The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of a Homecoming, in which Nouwen contemplates Rembrandt’s Prodigal Son, one of his last works. http://www.amazon.com/gp/reader/0385473079/ref=sib_dp_pt#reader-link

It is a powerful response to a powerful representation of Christ's story of hope and redemption, juxtaposing the unbelievable compassion of the character symbolizing the Divine with the remarkable lack of compassion of the unforgiving brother, who represents human nature all too well.

As we move through the hurts and disappointments that we all experience along life’s way, as God opens our eyes to the other wounded and hurting around us, may we have the heart of the Father to reach out and embrace that one who may have failed, but wants to be clean.

Leaving the Nest

Sitting on my deck this mid-morning, I am greeted by the now familiar squawks of birds protecting and coaxing their offspring into life beyond the nest. The curtain of clouds that had cast a dismal shadow over our mountain an hour earlier has moved on, and sunshine has returned with its promise and joy.

At this moment the blue jays are particularly vocal. I spot a squirrel scrambling much too close to the two baby chicks. Blue jay young leave the nest before tail feathers have fully developed, leaving them vulnerable and rather helpless. Yet, leave the nest they must.

The other week, one such blue jay fledging perched stubbornly on the deck stair post, having attempted to scale the stair rail... only to slide rather piteously backward to the landing. He was the ugliest blue jay I had ever seen.

Past being a chick, he was gawky and adolescent. The only recognizable marking of his future glory was the black ring around his eye and the one around his neck. I am not sure how long he stayed there; but later that day, I believe I saw him flutter out of the azalea bush below.

Summer began with a bluebird family with five chicks that skipped and flew about our backyard like it was some sort of practice gym. A neighbor and I share the most heavily wooded lots on the block, plus trampoline poles, a wooden fence, and several bushes that all the birds seem to enjoy as perches. For a solid week, they frolicked and chased one another as if playing a game. I was especially grateful for the bugs and moths they swooped down and swallowed.

Recently, a female towhee, who has been groundfeeding in our yard for weeks, built a nest in our neighbor’s cedar tree by the fence that joins us. She has been quiet there for several days. I am hoping she is still there. I just spotted the male towhee, with his black sportcoat and robin-like redbreast preen his feathers on a section of the fence nearby. I have never seen baby towhees before.

Families of house wrens, on the other hand, are frequent. In the winter months, wrens nestle in the eaves of our deck, taking refuge from the cold. Last June, one couple built their nest in our garage , finding a small gap in the dilapidated garage door we no longer use to make their entrance and escape. I was gone to a conference when the chicks hatched. But evidence of their practice flights in our garage (where my car was "safely" parked) left no doubt as to their presence.

A male cardinal who is apparently molting--his head appears featherless-- is calling out pleasantly from the post of our swingset. No one replies, so he moves on.

Earlier this morning I observed a young cardinal family. We have spied on hatchlings through a bedroom window, but have found the offspring difficult to identify once they were out of the nest. This morning I realized why. Unlike the blue jays, young cardinals leave the nest with adequate tail feathers. They look like the parents, just smaller in size.

What gave them away was their constant chirping and flapping. I could recognize their behavior as offspring before I actually got a good look at them. They hopped quite nervously from branch to branch, but never more than a few inches at a time. Mother was close by. They have since left the back corner of the yard where the tree branches clustered protectively.

The morning is warming into mid-day and the commotion has quieted, except for the persistent song of a bird I have not yet identified. Perhaps it is a mockingbird taking up another bird’s song and fooling me once again.

I have come to know the chuckle and gurgle of woodpeckers, the scratching of towhees, and the angry screeches of wrens, especially when squirrels venture to close. I have thrilled to get glimpses of rare Pileated Woodpeckers and listen to Flickers drill holes in branches high overhead.

But this summer, I have watched with vested curiosity that ever so difficult parenting task of the young leaving the nest. For I, too, have one that must begin to fly on her own. Who, still living at home, must still begin to leave the nest.

"Look at the birds...your Father feeds them. And you are far more valuable to him than they are." Matthew 6:26 (NLT).

Summer Plans – Busted Once More!

I always start summer with ambitious plans of what I am going to get done or caught up on. You know—like the photos that haven’t been organized in two or three years, much less carefully crafted into a memory book! The neglected gardening—all my outdoor potted plants have died. The deep cleaning of the how-did-it-get-so-nasty corners of the house, that I am sure I just cleaned weeks (or was it months?) ago.

For the past few summers, those plans have been thwarted, oh so easily. Summer 2006, I twisted my wrist while in Italy and had to have the loose screws and steel plate (from a year 2000 horse accident) removed from my right arm. All I did that summer was some light study and type on my blog.

Summer 2007 was a massive travel summer. I spent half of June studying at Ohio State University (Digital Media and Composition Institute) in Columbus, Ohio. In July, our family spent a week in North Carolina, including a memorable visit to the Outer Banks. Then later that month, we traveled to Canada, visiting Wasaga Beach (Lake Heron), Toronto’s CN Tower, and Niagara Falls. {See 2007 blog entries}

This summer would be different! My older children had summer jobs, and the youngest had plans to break up the monotony of summer with various friends and family members. No travel. No study. Just rest, recovery, and catch up.

Yeah, right! The second Tuesday of June, I slipped on the stairs in my house and landed squarely on my back. Sprained it. And for the rest of June, I could barely vacuum, much less tackle any “projects.”

Didn’t really get to resume my blog either—as planned. But I did get to read. I read more books in June than I can remember ever.

• I read CSI type-detective thrillers by James Patterson (about five of them I think), which deep, intriguing titles, like The Lifeguard and The Beachhouse.
  
• I read two historical novels by Thomas Quinn set in 15^th century Venice (The Lion of St. Mark and The Sword of Venice).
  
• A book on personal finance by Dave Ramsey.
  
• Finished Field Notes on a Catastrophe (UAB’s freshman discussion book for the fall) about global climate change.
• I am still reading Matthew Pearl’s novel The Dante Club, set in 1865 Boston with the poets Longfellow, Lowell, and Holmes as the main characters.
  

But my favorite—the one I digested slowly one chapter at a time—was Philip Yancey’s The Jesus I Never Knew.

Yancey writes in thoughtful, yet transparent, prose, his undisguised quest always caught in a tension between his probing intellect and his often tested faith. I admire these qualities in his writing—for he always situates his journey amid the rich spiritual and literary context of great writers and thinkers, such as Leo Tolstoy, C.S. Lewis, Dorothy Sayers, and Henri Nouwen.

And yet, these are presented as fellow sojourners. Their remarks glimmer like stars, adding sparkle and beauty to the chasm of the universe, but lacking the brilliance of the sun to light the way.

In the final analysis, the Jesus that Yancey wants to know is the one that is separated from its contemporary cultural construct—the thinly bearded Caucasian male that pats children on the head and gazes into the distance, detached from the horrors of the world we live in. He wants to know, like I do, the Christ of Christianity, separated from the iconic identity that centuries of European artists created to pacify power-hungry patrons and to justify medieval oppression.

Who is the real Jesus? The Jesus of the Gospels. The One who is called both the Lion and the Lamb. Who is this Jewish rabbi who preached a revolutionary message (love even your enemies), but shied away from staging a revolt against Roman oppressors? The man who claimed to be God and forgave those who nailed him to a cross. Who is that Jesus?

My back has recovered, and now I am on to those projects. I did get some rest. But Yancey’s book will stay with me, long after the summer is over. And I will be the better for it.