This brought me to tears today, as I wondered if we make sure our spouse is welcome? Are we ready for the question? Are we ready for our prodigals to come home?
The White Handkerchief by Patricia St. John from Stories to Share
The man sat on the pavement beside the bus stop and stared at the stones. A few people turned to look at him – his unshaven face, his slumped shoulders, and broken shoes, but he was not aware of their glances because he was reliving his life. He was no longer a hungry tramp who had slept last night under a railway arch; he was a boy who lived in a small red brick house up the next street, more than twenty years ago. Perhaps they had bulldozed over the house by now; he hoped they hadn’t crushed the pansies. It was strange how well he could remember the pansies, and the swing his dad had made for him, and the path where he had learned to ride his bike. They had saved up for months to buy that bike.
The man shrugged impatiently, for the brightness of those pictures hurt him, and his memory traveled on another ten years. The bike had been exchanged for a motorcycle, and he had begun to come home less often. He had a job by then and plenty of friends. Mum and Dad seemed a bit sad and gray, and the pubs were a lot more fun. He did not really want to remember those years, nor the days when the debts had piled up and he had gone home meaning to ask for money. They had made him a cup of tea, and he had not liked to mention what he had come for. But he knew exactly where his dad kept the money, and later on, when his parents went out into the garden, it was quite easy to help himself to what he wanted.
That was the last time he had seen them. He had not wanted to go home again after that, and they had lost track of him. He had gone abroad, and they knew nothing about the years of wandering and the prison sentence. But locked in his cell at night he had thought a lot about them. Sometimes when he tossed awake, and the moonlight moved across the wall, he used to wonder. Once free, he would love to see them again, if they were still alive, and always supposing they still wanted to see him.
When his time was up, he found a job in the town, but he could not settle. Something seemed to be drawing him home with an urge he could not get away from. Every time he went for a walk something reminded him – a clump of pansies, a child on a swing, a little boy running home from school – he could not forget the small red brick house.
He did not want to arrive penniless, so he walked or hitchhiked a good deal of the long journey home. He could have arrived earlier, but twenty miles away he was suddenly overcome with misgivings. What right had he to walk in like this? Could they ever reconcile the haggard man he had become with the boy they had loved who had so bitterly disappointed them?
He bought some food and spend most of that day sitting under a tree. The letter he posted that evening was quite short, but it had taken him hours to write. It ended with these words:
I know it is unreasonable of me to suppose that you want to see me .... so it’s up to you.
I’ll come to the end of the road early Thursday morning. If you want me home, hang
a white handkerchief in the window of my old bedroom. If it’s there, I’ll come on; if not,
I’ll wave good-bye to the old house and go on my way.
And now it was Thursday morning. He had arrived at the end of the street. It was still there! But having got there, he felt in no hurry at all. He just sat on the pavement and stared at the stones.
Well, he could not put it off forever, and after all they might have moved. If the handkerchief was not there he would make a few inquiries before actually leaving the town. He had not yet had the courage to face what he would do if they were there and simply did not want him.
He got up painfully, for he was stiff from sleeping outside. The street was still in shadow. Shivering a little, he walked slowly toward the old oak tree where he knew he would see the old house. He would not look till he got there.
He stood under the boughs with his eyes shut for a moment. Then he drew a long breath and looked. Then he stood staring.
The sun was already shining on the little red brick house, but it no longer seemed to be a little red brick house, for every wall was festooned with white. Every window was hung with sheets, pillowcases, towels, tablecloths, handkerchiefs, and table napkins; and white muslin curtains trailed across the roof from the attic window. It looked like a snow house gleaming in the morning light.
His parents were taking no risks.
The man threw his head back and gave a cry of relief. Then he ran up the street ad straight in the open front door.
