in his heart
B y Paul Hutchens
ginning of God’s opportunity; at the end of self—at the beginning of sal vation; midnight, the beginning of the dawn; a vision of personal sin fulness, the price of cleansing. No longer to say, ‘‘Give me . . . but make me . . . (as one of thy hired servants). Not what I have, or shall receive, but what I am— and whose I am, is the important thing.” The young man’s thoughts carry him far ahead on the old home road. Each step seems like an eternity. He is almost there now. . . Tired, thirsty, hungry, dusty, sin-sick, his heart panting for forgiveness, his sins black as night in his mind and soul, he sees the familiar scene, the old gate, the fountain, the vine sprawl ing, the winding walk, the fields run ning in the wind, and Father stand ing. No, not standing, but running. Father running! Good-bye, old hog pen; good-bye old worldly companions! Good-bye old carousing, old thievery, old gambling, old self-centered living, old emptiness of soul, old slavery to self and Satan. I am going back home—back to my father . . . and home. END.
light. He imagined he could see yon der beyond the horizon’s brim the old home, the old gate that swings, the green vine that sprawls across the weathered porch, the terrace where servants feet come and go, the foun tain in the shade of the palm, the stone bench, the varicolored flowers that border the winding walk, the verdant fields running in the winds, cattle grazing—and —standing in the doorway his waiting eyes searching the distance, his beard long, white and flowing, is Father, and near the fountain, more lonely still, Mother. Did he hear her call to the old man: “ Father, have you seen—can you see anything of our boy?” The vision fades. The young man in the ragged garments and the tat tered sandals suddenly rises to his feet, a resolution leaping into sud den flame as dry logs thrown upon waiting coals. “ I—I am at the end of my rope. I—have— sinned. I will arise and go to my father. Back to my father and home. I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight. I am no more worthy to be called thy son’.” At the end of the rope—at the be
squealing and whining at his feet. In times of famine even people ate hog food, making a kind of syrup from the pulp. One could starve, or one could eat the husks that the swine did eat. He had sought for freedom from his father’s restraint, but he had only run away from kindness and love; he had sought to be master of himself, and had become mastered by misery and loneliness and heartache; he had sought for luxury, and had found poverty of spirit. There was a famine in the land, and in his heart. Oh, he was hungry, not only for food, but for— home. For Father . . . for love . . . sympathy— even for a glimpse of the hired servants—and there were so many of them on the old home farm. Even they had enough and to spare. That was a sad day filled with a sense of personal worth, tingling hopes and plans for pleasure and independence, when he had said to his father, “ Give me the portion of goods that falleth to me A searing thought blew across the expanse of time and into his tortured brain, bringing with it a strange
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