Day 13 of 366

Have you ever read the story of the prodigal son? It’s Luke 15:11-32, and to recap it quickly:

A man has two sons. The younger son comes to him and requests his inheritance to which his father agrees. The younger son goes off, wastes the money, and a famine envelops the country. He is left with nothing and takes a job caring for pigs, and he begins to think about going home. All the things he left at home–but he hesitates, knowing that he failed and squandered his father’s money, letting him down and bringing shame on the family. But hunger wins out, and the younger son goes home. And what do you know? The father welcomes him with open arms–literally, open arms. He throws the younger son a party upon his return. When the older brother hears this, he is furious. He can’t understand why his younger brother should be rewarded for his mistakes. He gets extremely upset at his father and questions him. The father doesn’t care, because he is just happy his younger son is home, safe and sound.

Of all the parables in the Bible, this is the one that resonates with me the most. This family is my family.

And I am the older son.

For years, I have watched my brother break my parents’ hearts, only for them to open their arms every time he comes home.

For years, I’ve resented the excuses. The forgiveness. The coddling. The chances. All the chances.

For years, I thought if I could be perfect, it would make up for everything else. Like they would see me and know they were still good parents.

For years, I felt like it didn’t matter what I did–good or bad–it was never going to matter, because I wasn’t my younger brother.

For years, I messed up–just to see if anyone noticed. Sometimes they did, most of the time they didn’t. I flew under the radar, because I was invisible.

For years, I felt my problems were inconsequential.

For years, I felt like my parents chose him over me. Again. And again. And again. And again.

And I hated it.

Part of me hated you, mom and dad.

I hated how it made me feel…the resentment, the shame, the guilt. Like I was selfish for wanting your attention and love, when he was the one that needed you most. I was jealous of him–the addict you called your son. I was jealous that every time he came home you opened your arms. Every. Single. Time.

It wasn’t until I had my second child that I understood.

You didn’t love him more.
You didn’t love me less.
There was room for us both.
There is STILL room for us both.

I’m sorry, mom and brother. For my selfishness. For my anger. For my resentment. For my hateful words and actions. I wish dad was here, so I could tell him he was right. Family is everything, and at the end of the day, after God, family is all we have in this world. I can’t take back the years, but I can be better. I can do better.

I may still be the older brother,
But now, I’m ready to celebrate with you.

Welcome home, brother.