One of my favorite passages of reading is the story of the prodigal son, it is my story. In the story, the wayward son finally comes to the end of himself while he sits in a pig pen and the passages reads, “When he finally, came to his senses…”. This is such a powerful affirmation of how we are made. What does coming to his senses mean? It means that he suddenly became aware of the truth his senses had proven to him over and over again. He was reminded of the touch of his father’s hand as he as patted him on the head over a job well done, as he cleaned his skinned knees and carried him often to bed. He was reminded of all the wonderful smells of his father’s home, rich with the aroma of wonderful meals the father had provided, the smell of the father’s fields abundant with crop as the summer rains nourished them. He could hear the father's voice encouraging him after a setback, praying over him as he was put to bed, telling him a joke, imparting wisdom as they worked together in the fields. He could remember seeing his father’s kindness to his employees, the many times he had helped the poor, forgiving those that had wronged him, seen him weary at night from a day of laboring for his family. This prodigal in the pen remembered the taste of the cool water from the well his father had dug, the savory steaks from the cattle his father had raised, the sweet pies from the orchard his father had lovingly labored over. But his senses also gave him evidence of the results of his own rebellion. He could feel the slime of mud and slop as he stood barefooted in the pen. He could smell the stench of pig dung and the filth of his new home. The lingering taste of rotted corn, fit only for pigs, still clung to his teeth and the roof of his mouth. He heard the rutting pigs as the pushed at him and savagely threatened him for their food he was now eating. And he could see where all his rebellion had finally landed him. It was him in the pen and it was him that had walked every step of his journey there. But his senses also brought to him hope. Beyond the pen he could feel the breeze of summer, the wind filled with sweeter pastures, cut grass, and wildflowers momentarily filled his nostrils, used to being filled with stench, with the sweet fragrance of the open glades that reminded him of his home far away. He could hear the singing birds, the buzzing bees that even now filled his father’s hives with sweet honey, he could hear the rustled trees which reminded him of those that surrounded his father’s house providing shade in the heat of summer and shelter from the high winds of winter. The very air tasted like fall as the tiny particle of a harvest feast being prepared at his employer’s house had, as it had many times before, filled his mouth with imagination. And then it happened, he looked down at his feet, once fitted with the finest sandals made from the soft leather from his father’s herd, now covered in filth and he came to his final sense. These same feet that had walked him to this sty could also walk him back home. He saw the potential of the feet that had once tottered him to his father's outstretched arms as he learned to walk could also hobble him humbly back to his father. He had come to his sense, after the long stupor of ignorant rebellion, his senses, a gift of unparalleled kindness, had awakened his heart to Truth—and he headed home.
P.S. “And while he was yet a long way off his father saw him, was filled with compassion for him, ran to him, wrapped his arms around him, and kissed him.”
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