The road was a long and rocky one. There were many pitfalls and distractions along it. He felt like giving up too many times to count. He felt abandoned sometimes, thus alone. He wanted to lie down in that dusty road with smelly dung here and there and never get up again. Will, it was. A lack of will to go on. Like his lack of interest, ambitions, and clear goals of earlier days. They'd told him that was what the problem was. But he got up the two or three times he fell down. He'd lain there a while, but got up the courage to get up again each time. Now he hoped it was the right road. One was never too sure. Some had told him to go back, to take road X or road Y. Some had said road X was easier to travel on, but others had said no, that road Y, they were convinced, was easier. There was no agreement among them and this confused him. Sometimes it brought tears to his eyes. Fortunately, there were some things that were funny occasionally, so, there was some laughter on that road. There was some joy and peace, if you will, but not a lot, mind you. Once a donkey stopped on a "dime" for some reason, and the rider, an old, well-dressed man, simply plunged straight ahead right into a big puddle. Needless to say, he let out a few embarrassing curses. Finally, one day after trekking what seemed so very far, he began to see that the road had an end to it. Just as the fabled tunnel with its light. He was cautious at first, then optimistic. A few things he'd come to and passed seemed familiar, albeit only slightly. The open sores on his body were painful, but not more painful than the shame inside him. He was almost naked. Had not even a coin to his meaningless name anymore. But the optimism continued. It was inextinguishable now. He saw one, then two, then a few other workers whom he thought he recognized. They looked at him in quiet disbelief. He looked at them too. In the eyes, each one, but he was also quiet. Then he couldn't surpress the big smile that forced its way onto his parched lips and face. It was the house. For sure. The spacious house and its colorful porch. Someone had run ahead of him and informed the old man and lady. And now the old bearded one there was looking toward him from that flowery verandah. He, too, wore a look of disbelief. But there was love in that old look. Genuine love. And it made the salty tears flow like a mountain trout stream from his dark eyes onto his dirty, dusty cheeks and rags. But he felt happiness. That was what mattered. Happiness at last. After such an interminable and miserable journey. That 'coming home' kind of inner thrill that some people in this world know about. Tears also ran down the old, wrinkled face on that painted porch. He could hardly bear seeing the old man like that, yet it was his fate. He then thanked his omnipotent Maker with a silent prayer that he had made it home in spite of all the hardships. Later, he'd learned that he would be known in history to untold millions as the "prodigal son". He couldn't care less, though. That was a long time ago--back on earth where he used to live.
This exceptional book, Celebrating the Gift of Being Alive, has the perfect thoughts and words for birthdays, graduations, engagements, marriages, and any life celebration or family tradition.
