The young man's friends laugh at him, but what does he care for public opinion. "I have made up my mind," he says. He doesn't stay to get a new suit of clothes as some men do in coming to Christ. They want to do some good deeds before they come. He just started as he was.
I see him walking on dusty roads and over hills, and crossing brooks and rivers. It didn't take him long to go home when he'd made up his mind.
Going home after being away for a few months you long to catch a glimpse of that old place. As you near it you remember the precious hours and the pleasant days of childhood.
As the prodigal comes near his old home; all his days of happy childhood come before him. He wonders if his father is still alive, and as he comes near the home he says: "It may be that he is dead." Ah! what a sad thing it would have been if he found that his father had died mourning for him.
Is there anyone here who has a father and mother, whose love you are scorning and to whom you have not written for years? I said to a prodigal the other night, "How long is it since you have written to your mother?"
"Four and a half years."
'Don't you believe your mother loves you?"
"Yes," he replied, "it is because she loves me that I don't write. If I told her the life I've been leading, it would break her heart"
"If you love her," I said, "go and write to her tonight and tell her all."
I got his promise, and I am happy. I can't tell how glad I am when young prodigals return home. I know how joyful their parents will be when they hear from them.
As our prodigal son nears his father's home, he wonders if the man's heart will have turned against him. Will he receive a welcome? He doesn't know his father's heart. The old man is up there on that flat roof, in the cool of the day, waiting for his boy. He has been there every day, straining his eyes to catch the first glimpse of his son, should he return. He is still there hoping to see the wanderer come back. He sees a form in the distance, and as it comes nearer, he can tell that it is a young man. He cannot tell who it is by his dress. His robe is gone, and his ring and shoes too, but the old man catches sight of the face.
He comes running down, his long white hair floating through the air. He rushes past his servants, out of the door, and up to his son, whom he warmly embraces. He rejoices over him.
The young man tries to make a speech-he tries to ask his father if he can be one of his servants, but the father won't listen to it. When he gets him to the house he cries to one servant, "Go and get the best robe for him;" and to another, "You go and get a ring and put it on his finger." He tells other servants to fetch his son some shoes and to kill the fatted calf.
There was joy there. "My boy who was dead is alive again." There was joy in that house.
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