Imagine with me that in the parable of
the prodigal son, there is not only a
younger son and an older son, but a
younger daughter as well.
The name of the younger son is Nikva,
the name of the older son is Mainan,
and the name of the daughter is Hayanita.
As we enter the story, Hayanita is 18
years old, and Nikva, the younger, has been
gone for 10 years.
She and her father are sitting on the
front porch in their nightly vigil.
This is now the 20th year that I
have attempted to write these poems, and I
want you to know that without you they
could not and would not exist.
They are written out of worship, for worship,
and are born out of the heart of
a very happy shepherd, elder, preacher, teacher.
And therefore they are a testimony to you
of my deep gladness at being among you.
And I offer them to you as a
gift, which is really my own joy, I
hope, pouring back on you and your fulfillment
of that wonderful text.
Let them not do this with sadness, for
that would be of no advantage to you,
but let them do this ministry with joy.
This is the first of what will be
perhaps three and maybe four on this parable,
and do remember this.
The parable of the prodigal son, Luke 15,
11 to 32, is written to give an
account for why the Lord Jesus came and
ate with sinners.
The road down from the father's farm was
empty, like an empty arm that once embraced
and then let go, or one that beckoned
from below.
The road runs west and curves its way
through miles and miles of wheat, and may
at harvest time look like a path through
paradise, or walls of wrath, like water heaped
on either side of Israel, for one a
tide to save and for another slay.
At first the slope that leads away and
westward falls is kind and soft, then cursed
with falling stones and oft with wind and
rutted steeps, and so it proves an easy
way to go and hard to come.
The front porch of the mansion, with a
roof above for shade and rocking chairs below,
was planned and built ten years ago and
faces west.
And recently a ramp was added there to
free the old man from the steps.
His knees had gotten bad.
The cedar trees spread round the house, cast
shadows now, as Hyanita kept her vow and
sat before her father on the steps and
prayed that dusk or dawn would bring her
brother home.
The old man watched her from his chair,
controlled and measured in the mingling of his
pain and pleasure, with a love perhaps that
only fathers know.
Her brother Manon long ago gave up these
feudal seasons, as he thought, and worked instead.
He has more fruitful things to do than
gaze with dreamers as the final rays of
light and hope, he said, fade from the
western sky.
His heart was numb and cold, and so
his father cried and felt that both his
sons had died.
The one from play when passions boil, the
other from his toxic toil.
The one a hundred miles away, the other
even while he stay.
The one a slave to lust and fools,
the other slave to laws and rules.
The Hyanita freely came and nightly watched her
brother's name fall from her father's silent lips
in prayer and saw the way it rips
his heart and learned from him the way
to love.
This night her mind would stray back to
the time ten years ago and more when
she was eight or so, and oh so
happy when they played with her.
Both brothers and the stayed old man now
sitting in his chair, eyes closed and whispering
his prayer, would lie down in the autumn
sheaves and she would cover them with leaves
and cedar straw and then she would leap
and clap as if to wake from sleep
and there would be a great earthquake and
three grown men would rise and shake and
shout aloud with arms outspread, our little girl
can raise the dead.
And so tonight she pondered this.
At eighteen she still felt the kiss of
Nikba on her cheek ten years ago for
one last time and saw the tears roll
down his face when she said, Nik, don't
go.
She hugged his waist, then quick, as if
to do it while he could, he turned
and ran down through the wood so he
could stop and cry, then fled along the
empty road that led down to the west,
away from all his family and home.
A call that no one understood, and he
perhaps the least, now seemed to be all
overpowering.
His place was bare, nor has she seen
his face.
Ten years have turned a little lass into
a woman now, but past as time may
do, some things do not.
And Hayanida's heart for what one day she
planned to do was just as sure as
on the night she thrust her little hand
into the dark and said, I'll find you,
Nikba.
Mark my words, someday I'll find you dead
and bring you home alive.
His head was lifted now, and eyes were
wide to look once more and see who
plied the road from west to east.
At last she said, My father, firm and
fast like great spikes in a tree, your
love for Nikba strengthens me above my every
other love save yours.
And year by year this love endures, and
now I am 18, and ask your blessing
on the only task that I have dreamed
and planned for all these years that Nik,
since I was small, has been away.
I want to go and find him where
he is and show him he can still
come home.
He closed his weakening eyes as if he
dozed, then said, Just like your mother spoke,
you speak.
She would be pleased to stoke your fire
and send you on your way with iron
shield and sword to slay whatever dragons lay
twixt you and exploits that you aim to
do.
He smiled.
But Haya, she is gone, you know.
All dragons slain but one, the fever.
She fought well and lost.
And now, my daughter, is the cost of
having Nikba losing you?
It is not safe for girls to do
such things or go where Nikba lives.
I've been there many times.
It gives my heart a shudder just to
think of how they lust and what they
drink and what they say to girls and
do.
Nikba is not the boy that you remember,
Hayanita.
He's changed.
Father, I know all these unpleasant things.
And I know he has changed, but so
have we.
Ten years of prayer was not in vain.
And I believe some things remain from all
you've taught.
A tender tug and that he still can
feel the hug I gave him when he
pulled away, just like I feel his kiss
today.
And Father, most of all, you taught me
there is a power in love that naught
can thwart and that it moves where truth
and courage speak.
And neither youth nor age can hinder its
success, but only fear and quietness.
Our mother died when I was six.
And I still see today the sticks she
broke and said, See that?
Just so God breaks the back of every
foe to bring his children home.
I think that she would let me go.
A blink, my daughter.
In a blink, she would have let you
go.
And you?
I could not well succeed without your hand
of blessing on my head.
He scanned the darkening west and empty road
and fields and wondered what they bode now
for this little girl.
Then raised his trembling, empty arm and praised
the grace and courage in her heart and
did then in these words impart a blessing
with his right hand laid now gently on
her head.
Invade, my valiant daughter, darkness now.
And I will keep our common vow here
in this place until you come again.
And may you bring me some good news
beyond the gift of men that both my
boys may live again.
As we light candle one today, let none
relent but ever pray.
And when the months stretch into years and
decades gather up the tears, know this, a
little girl, or it may be a boy,
is rising secretly and will become in ways
that you have never dreamed nor ever knew
a light within your darkening sky, an answer
to your endless cry.