The Prodigal Father

What more need I say? I rejoice to return to the good graces of my sons' families.

Nothing could be sweeter than to be rejoined to them after so many bitter years of self-enforced absence. The parable has been literally fulfilled in my life. In my case, I am ready for the feast with my sons, only hoping that it is not too late in our lives to kill the fatted calf and still enjoy and make merry together with some of the fruits of the best things in life.

It has been a bittersweet reward. The reminder of days past and opportunities lost haunts me with guilt and shame and recrimination. I suffer from these feelings, for one, in the form of a recurring nightmare that I re-live over and over, and cannot dispel the horror of the blasted broken bodies and anguished voices, pleading for relief and ask me, why did I not TELL them?

I'm so sorry.

I do so love you, my sons, and I wasn't there for you when you needed me. But I'm here now, and now I'm the one pleading, begging. Please let me help, with anything you want or need, before it is too late again. Anything.

Tempus Fugit.

The Deepest Sorrow of All

I often sing in my mind the refrain of the Tabernacle Choir singing "David's Lamentation" by William Billings.

David the King was grieved and moved;
He went to his his chamber,
His chamber and wept;
And as he went,
He wept and said,
"O my son!
O my son!
Would to God I had died!
Would to God I had died for thee!
O Absalom,
My son,
My son!"

Vic'try that day was turned into mourning
When the people did see how the King grieved for his son.
He covered his face, and in a loud voice cried,
"O my son!
O my son!
Would to God I had died!
Would to God I had died for thee!
O Absalom,
My son,
My son!"

My longing and regret is that I was an absent father for such a long time, and such a critical period in the lives of my sons. I am sad that I missed so much, and feel guilty that I was not there for them. I weep to know of times they needed a dad, and I was not there, and my heart aches. I can never make up for times lost, but can try to make some recompense for the damage I caused, and hopefully they will accept some benign advice and well-intentioned guidance from admittedly foolish and crippled old man.

I am searching in the darkness for the light of inspiration. I feel a real sense of urgency about this, because I think nothing is more important, and my time seems very limited.

There also seems to be much in the way of opposition to overcome. Most of it seems to be of my own doing, unfortunately.

In the horror of nightmares, one recurs. I never understood quite what it meant to me until now. Perhaps it seems more significant, given the current circumstances with myself and my family.

I am dreaming that I am in the woods with a group of young boys. They seem to be looking to me as their leader. We are all more or less outfitted in uniform green.

Somewhere along the trail, one of the group discovers a box that is labelled with a very old label I recognize. It is old explosives, and I tell the boys I see that it is old and weeping, and very dangerous.


I tell them all about handling explosives and primer cord safely, and leave them to experiment with the case of the unstable stuff. As I walk away, suddenly there is a flash and a huge detonation, and many screaming voices and cries of distress. I turn to look, and see the broken and agonized, suffering and begging me, pleading for help! And above all, the living, broken survivors suffering in such pain, and askng me, why didn't I stop them? Why?

I will do what I can.
I will do what I can.

Sitting around weeping never solved anything.

Again, my sorrows are my own.