The Road Home

by Donna Poole

Of course it was raining. I’d forgotten how muddy these backroads get in the rain. I’d forgotten many things, how to laugh, how to love, how to live.

The May lilacs drooped heavily over the country roads leading home. I’d once loved their scent. Now, all I could smell was myself. I smelled of the pigs I’d been sleeping with, animal and human, and I smelled of shame. You think shame doesn’t have a scent? You’d know better if you’d been where I’ve been, done what I’ve done.

I never expected this ending. Since I’d been a little girl, family and friends had remarked on what they’d called my unusual talent and radiant beauty. Convinced I could make fame and fortune my own, I’d fixated on one thing. Money. I needed money to get my start. Farm-life would wrinkle my skin, make me old before my time, and suck the life out of me. I had to get away from home.

So, I begged Dad for money, and I was relentless.

My brother, Eliab, was furious. “How could you! Do you know how Dad got that money he gave you? He cashed in his life insurance policy and gave you the half you would have gotten when he died. I heard him sobbing last night. He hasn’t cried since Mom’s funeral! This might kill him!”

I tried to care, but I was too excited. City lights were calling, and I had more money than I’d ever dreamed. Why try to explain to Eliab? He wouldn’t understand me; he never had. I edged passed him with my suitcase and headed out the door.

“Marion! Don’t leave like this when Dad’s not home! At least wait and tell him goodbye!”

“It’s better this way,” I said.

It was a beautiful, sunny September when I left. Hitchhiking was exciting, and contrary to all the warnings I’d heard, no one robbed or assaulted me. Not then.

My dream city job never materialized, but I was having so much fun with my new friends I didn’t care.

It’s amazing how fast you can blow through a hundred grand in the fast lane. The night life, breathtaking at first, eventually left me feeling so empty I almost didn’t care when my cash ran out. I wasn’t worried the first night I couldn’t pay the tab; my new friend would pick it up. He did but not willingly.

It’s amazing how fast you can blow through friends when you’re broke and need a bed or a hot meal. I was too proud for a shelter or the mission, and I vowed I’d never go home. I’d die first. And I almost did.

You don’t need to hear how I ended up on the streets and the things I did to survive that cold winter. No one would hire me. I didn’t blame them; I wouldn’t have hired myself.

One night I met a group of men who taught me quickly that not all farmers were the gentlemen my dad and his friends were. I’d already learned too much about men from sleeping on the streets to trust easily, but when I saw those farmers in a bar, their flannel shirts and jeans made me nostalgic for home and lured me into a false sense of security. When they offered me a ride and a place to stay, I went with them, like the idiot I was.

I don’t want to say much about the nights I spent with them in their shack or out in the barn with their pigs just to keep warm.

One early May morning, I woke from a nightmare. The men were still sleeping when I left. I tried hitchhiking, but no one would give me a ride.

So, I walked. Over and over I rehearsed my speech, “I’m not worthy to be your daughter. If you’ll just let me sleep in a clean bed, I’ll do anything! You can fire the cook and housekeeper; I’ll do all their work, and I can help Eliab do his chores. . . .”

I scratched at the lice on my head and dug at the flea bites on the skin I’d once admired. Once I’d worried about wrinkled skin, but now I shrunk in horror from my scarred soul.

When I didn’t think I could take another step, I saw it, the place I’d once called home, a white farmhouse with its wraparound porch. It looked so clean. I wouldn’t blame Dad if he shoved me away and shouted at me to go back to the filth I’d come from.

I saw a man push himself out of  the porch rocking chair. It couldn’t be Dad; this man was older, stooped, and weighed about fifty pounds less than the strong father I’d left. He shaded his eyes with his hands, looking at me. Then he started running and shouting for my brother.

“Eliab! Eliab! Come quick! It’s our Marion!”

“Dad,” I choked out, “I’m not worthy to be. . . .”

Dad was laughing and crying. He smothered my words in his hug.

“We’re going to have the biggest party this county’s ever seen! Eliab, you have to help me. We’re going to take Marion shopping for new clothes, and I want to give her your mother’s diamond ring. Hey! Why aren’t you hugging your sister?”

He stopped, shocked by the look of hatred on Eliab’s face and the venom of his words.

“How can you even stand to touch her? She smells like trash and worse. You’re going to have a party for that slut who squandered your money on booze, drugs, and who knows what else? What about me? What have you ever done for me?”

“You’re the most faithful son a man could have, and all I have is yours. But can’t you rejoice with me? We thought your sister was dead, and she’s come home!”

Dad kept one arm around my shoulder and led me toward the house. Eliab didn’t follow. Would Eliab ever love me again? I didn’t know, and my cold heart melted with warm tears. I looked up at the joy and undeserved love in my father’s face.

If Dad could look at me like that, was he a figure of the True? Could my heavenly Father still love me too?

I fell to my knees, sobbing myself clean in the mud. God did love me still. He loved me with a beauty only the broken see. And I could love Him; I would love Him with a depth no righteous elder brother, only other forgiven sinners like me can understand.

“Daughter! Marion, come inside. Soon we’ll have you smelling as sweet as the lilacs. Aren’t they beautiful this spring?”

I took a deep breath. The lilacs were lovely that spring, lovelier than they’d ever been.

This narrative is based on one of my favorite Bible stories. You can read it in Luke 15:11-32.