And, the Rest of the Story?

Nowhere in the New Testament does it tell us the “rest of the story” as Paul Harvey used to say it.  We never learn how the story ends.  The prodigal son returns . . . the father throws him a humdinger of a party to welcome him home . . . the older son throws a hissy fit . . . and that is it!  The story is done.  Inquiring minds want to know, what happened next?

Did the youngest son stick to the straight and narrow?  Did the oldest son carry his grudge to the Hatfield and McCoy’s level?  Did the father still love them both even if the reprieve was brief and everyone returned to their old behaviors?  Did the neighbors still point their fingers and whisper?  How did things end up?

Next week I drive down to Colorado to pick the oldest son and bring him to Montana where he will be starting a new job at the start of November.  The oldest son has been the prodigal our lives since he graduated high school and moved away.  He would tell you that his experiences over the past six to seven years were fairly reflective of the youngest son in the story of the prodigal son.  He would readily admit that he did more than his fair share of sowing wild oats and paying the consequences of those actions.  He would also tell you that he has learned a lot of tough lessons.  He has caused his mother and father more than a little heartbreak through it all, but we have always left the door open for him to come home—figuratively and literally.  Now, the time has come and he is returning home.

I think that this has been one of those decisions for him that pulled him in a lot of different directions.  On the one hand, he wants to come home and be with his family; on the other hand, there are still a lot of loose ends that won’t be tied up when he slams that door behind him.  At this point in his life he believes that this is the best thing that he can do as he continues on this new journey he began about six months ago.  At home he will have the love and support of his family.

But it won’t be easy.

It won’t be easy because there is always the past that hangs around like a shadow that can’t be shook . . . always waiting to rear its ugly head and bite him in the rear.  It won’t be easy because it will be a whole new experience that at times will be frustrating.  In times of frustration there is safety in going back to that which is familiar and comfortable . . . going back to the past.  There are issues of trust no matter how many reassuring words are spoken by those who love him . . . as it is for him, so it is for the family who loves him.  It is easy to revert back to the past when things get messed up.  The journey is just beginning and there are many paths—forward and backward—that he could choose to travel down.  And, yet, the prodigal returns and no one is quite sure how the story is going to end . . . we have never been told.

Like most people I want to believe that the story of the prodigal ended with a “happily ever after”, but I am also a realist.  Life is never as smooth as it is in stories or movies; there are bumps along the way.  Because of that I have a sense of wariness of what the future will bring for the story.  I think that all parents do when it comes to their children no matter what their situations . . . we worry about their futures . . . worry about their happiness . . . their success.  We only want the best for them.  So, we worry and wonder how the story will end.

As our oldest child returns to the fold, I can only deal with the present part of the story.  The prodigal has come a long ways in the past six months.  He has done much to straighten out his life and determine what his priorities are.  He has done well and, both his mother and I are quite proud of him.  The story is slowly leaning towards that “happily ever after” ending, but we have a long ways to go.  For now, we are glad to have him coming home . . . and that is enough for now.

Maybe there was a reason for the writer of the story not to tell us the rest of the story . . . maybe the point of the story--to step into the shoes of those involved and to stand before that great mystery of “what next?”  To discover that real faith begins at that point. 

We welcome the prodigal home.  We embrace him and shower him with our love.  Now what?  Faith . . . I have faith in him, I have faith in God.  My prayer is simple for all of us as we stand at the nexus of the story: “Thy will be done.”  We have to start somewhere and together we start here.

Calling in Sick

It was difficult dragging myself out of bed this morning when the alarm went off.  After a long period of several weeks of work between two jobs with no real breaks, my body rebelled against my mind.  My mind, the responsible part of my body, was ready to go, while the rest of the body threw a pillow at the mind, telling it to “shut up and go back to sleep!”  Needless to say . . . I got up.  Despite getting up I still contemplated calling in and taking a “sick day”.

Unfortunately the good Lord blessed me with a good immune system that seldom fails me . . . I rarely get sick.  I always thought that one had to be “sick” to call in “sick” . . . little did I know.  Msn.com had an article dealing with this topic and it is amazing what I learned about “calling in sick”.

The article stated that 30 percent of all workers in the past year have called in sick without actually being ill.  Winter seems to be a popular time for calling in sick with the holidays seeming to be the busiest for illness—especially December when the call-in rate is around 20 percent.  The next most popular month for skipping out of work is July, followed by January and February.  Today is October 22^nd . . . calling in sick might have raised some eyebrows at work as it is not December, January, February, or July!  Plus there were no holidays associated with this particular day—except it is National Nut Day, but that one would have been too obvious.  All my co-workers would have encouraged me to go and be with my people!

The university at which I work is typical in what it allows for “personal days” whether it is vacation or sick days . . . they accumulate over time.  Though they accumulate over time, I have noticed that the vacation days seem to fly the coop at a much faster rate than the sick days.  I imagine it has to do with “purpose”—what is the purpose for taking the personal day.  With vacation the university does not care what you are doing; with the sick days the university expects one to be sick.  Surprisingly the number one reason for using sick days is being sick . . . followed by not wanting to go to work (34 percent), feeling like one needs to relax (29 percent), going to see a doctor (22 percent), catching up on sleep (16 percent), or to run errands.  Boy, it seems as if the definition of being sick is pretty broad . . . 

The other problem I have with calling in sick is that I have never been a great liar . . . oh, I can kid with the best of them, but I am a terrible liar. I think one has to be good at lying to get away with taking a day off using the excuse of being sick . . . or at least be a creative writer or storyteller.  I’d have to take a day off to come up with a great excuse!  Here were some of the more creative excuses people used to skip work:

Employee’s sobriety tool wouldn’t allow the car to start.

Employee forgot he had been hired for the job.

Employee said her dog was having a nervous breakdown.

Employee’s dead grandmother was being exhumed for a police investigation.

Employee’s toes got stuck in the faucet.

Employee said a bird bit her.

Employee was upset after watching the “Hunger Games”.

Employee got sick from reading too much.

Employee was suffering from a broken heart.

Employee’s hair turned orange from dyeing her hair at home.

As good as those excuses were . . . none would work for me.  My car does not have a sobriety tool, that is usually my wife and she will let me know.  I have worked nearly four years for the same place . . . hard to forget that.  My dogs give me more nervous breakdowns than one might imagine.  Never have thought about sticking my toe in the faucet.  The only reason I got upset with the “Hunger Games” was because I spend money seeing it.  I read too much, but I have never gotten sick of reading.  Guess you have to have a heart in order for it to get broken . . . besides my heart has been stomped on so much there is nothing left to break.  And, you’ve got to have hair—any hair—in order to dye it any color . . . even orange!

So . . . I went to work.  I did not join the ranks of the 30 percent.  Nor did I start a career in creative writing.  I did not lie.  I came to work.  But I have been inspired!  I am going to work on my excuses, I am going to learn to lie, and I am going to work up the courage to call in sick.  I am thinking that honesty might be the best policy:

 

What do you think?

Five Minutes . . . Who Knew?

Last week, in Time magazine, they reported a statistic that caught my attention.  The statistic?  Well, Time  magazine reported that five minutes is what an American has to work to afford a beer, according to a new study of the median wages and average beer prices across 150 countries.  The average for most nations is twenty minutes.  Five minutes . . . who knew?

I sure didn’t know that five minutes after starting work I had earned enough to purchase a beer . . . even at my wages!  There must be some pretty cheap beer out there!  Or, there must be some pretty well paid employees out there!  Either way, who knew that five minutes of work could produce enough money to purchase a beer . . . as long as you were not at some major sporting event or a concert.  Five minutes . . .

. . . I am guessing that my boss doesn’t know.  She would probably be questioning why I am so willing to work overtime . . . she’d accuse me of wanting to earn more money for beer.  Hey, can I help it if they university gives time-and-a-half for overtime?  Shoot, working overtime cuts my earning ability in half . . . now it is two and a half minutes! 

Being a “stat geek”, I thought I would check out the math.  Typically I purchase my beer supply on Friday afternoon on the way home from work.  I usually spend about $21.00 for three six-packs of microbrews.  That equates to about $1.16 a beer.  My five minutes of work is worth—surprisingly$1.16!  Who knew?  I didn’t!

I also figured that in a typical eight hour work day I would be able to afford 96 beers.  Ninety-six beers . . . I can already hear the wife giving it to me if I brought home 96 beers . . . that is a whole nearly half a year’s worth of beer at our house!  That’s 480 beers a week . . . 24,960 beers a year . . . not counting overtime at time-and-a-half.  That sort of production would give White Clay, Nebraska a run for its money.  If you don’t know what I am referring to, Google White Clay.

Talk about renewing one’s purpose for work!  I guess I should be thankful that I live in the good ol’ U.S. of A.!  Five minutes . . .  who knew!