Page 136 of The Prodigal Son

His nostrils flare as another tear slips over his cheek.

“But I can’t let you dictate my life anymore. You’ve made your bed, and now it’s time to lie in it. If this truly is the end for you, then I hope you go knowing that I don’t hate you. I’m not even mad at you.”

Choosing not to sit around and let his sadness affect me anymore, I stand from the couch and walk toward the back patio where the rest of my family is.

Before leaving, I turn back to face him.

“I know you prayed to God for me to be different. But you know, Dad, I wish you were different.”

He turns toward me, his eyes red and bloodshot, as he softly whispers, “I am proud of you, Isaac. I’m so proud of you. You were right. I always loved my boys, and when you left, it nearly killed me.”

The words wash over me like oil on water. I give him a lazy shrug as I reply, “It doesn’t matter anymore. Bye, Dad.”

With that, I leave him sitting alone and join the rest of my family, where I belong.

Forty

Jensen

Four weeks later

“What are you afraid of, Jensen?”

I wind my arms around my waist as I close my eyes and find the same old fears and voices waiting for me. Each of my hands taps in time—left, right, left, right—something he has me do whenever I have to answer this question.

“That God will hate me,” I reply. “That I’m letting people down. My congregation. My family. Myself.”

“And is that true?”

I take a deep breath. Left, right, left, right.

“No.”

“What is true?” he asks from across the room.

Digging deeper, I pull out the first thing that comes to mind. They’re buried beneath the lies and I imagine pulling them from some deeply locked case within my head.

“I’m not letting anyone down. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“What about God?”

Tears sting behind my eyes, but I’m not afraid to let that happen anymore. The fear that one tear will lead to a tidal wave is no longer there.

“The God I worship loves me the way I am.”

“Good,” he mumbles. “Open your eyes.”

I let my hands relax at my sides. Kyle is smiling softly at me from his seat across the room. “Deep breath,” he says.

I do, and it feels just as good as it does every day, like breathing out something heavy and toxic.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

I nod. “Better.”

“Tell me more,” he says, and I do.

I’ve learned to regard my emotions differently since I came here. They don’t terrify me the way they once did. It’s like a sieve has been opened inside me and I can let out every dark thought, every vulnerability, every fear and confession. There is no judgment, least of all from myself.

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