“Love endures all things.” ~ 1 Corinthians 13:7
When twenty-something
Samuel left town, he didn’t say goodbye.
He was
young, restless, and certain of being misunderstood. Every conversation with
his father felt like a quiet correction, well-meant, but heavy to a son
desperate to be his own man.
Henry, his
father, believed in patience, in steady, proven paths. Samuel burned for
motion, for risk, for a life he could claim as his own. What Henry called
wisdom, Samuel heard as doubt.
Their
argument hadn’t been loud, which almost made it worse. It ended in unfinished
sentences and a long silence. With pride clenching his heart, Samuel walked out.
He told himself that leaving was necessary; that distance would prove his
strength. Success would justify any wounds he caused.
What
Samuel never admitted, not even to himself, was that he left out of fear. Fear
of failing beneath his father’s expectations. Fear that if he stayed, he would
never discover who he was apart from the man who raised him.
So he
chose the road instead of his father’s table, independence instead of
reconciliation. There would be time later, he reasoned, after the anger cooled,
after he proved he was right. But years passed, and by the time he learned that
pride was a poor substitute for peace, the silence had grown heavier than the
apology he spoke out loud.
Henry had
always kept Samuel’s room unchanged. Not because he expected his son to return,
but because love, once given, doesn’t know how to revoke itself.
Years
later, a letter arrived in his son’s handwriting. “Dad, I don’t know how to
come home. I just know I should never have left like that.”
He folded
the letter, checked the clock, whispered a prayer, and put on his coat. There
was a chance, just a chance, that Samuel would be on the evening bus. Hope
rarely offers certainty.
That
night, Samuel stepped off the bus, eyes lowered, rehearsing apologies he feared
would never be enough. When he looked up, he saw his Dad - breathless from the
walk, eyes shining with unshed tears.
“I don’t
deserve this,” Samuel
said.
Henry
shook his head gently. “Forgiveness isn’t something you earn,” he
replied. “It’s something I chose long before you asked.”
They
walked home together, slowly. Not everything was repaired that night. Trust
would take time. But the greatest distance, that space between resentment and
mercy, had already been crossed.
Later,
Samuel noticed his bedroom light glowing. “You left it on for me?” he
asked. Henry smiled. “No,” he said. “I left it on for myself. Hope
needs light, too.”
Father
God, You see the roads chosen and the
tables left behind. Teach us to choose love over pride, patience over distance,
and hope over fear. Give us hearts that forgive before requested and the
courage to return when Grace calls. Amen
