I’m sitting on a plane, reading a modern version of Jesus’ parable of the prodigal son. I reach the part when the ever-loving father welcomes his long-lost son home. I smile at the beauty of love and reconciliation. For the parable is far more about the nature and character of God than the foolishness of the prodigal. I’ve often wanted to re-name the story “The Parable of the Generous Father” instead of the “Prodigal Son.”

Of course, we are the ungrateful kid who cashes in the family inheritance, and ignoring the pain we cause, grab the money and run. The story speaks to us where we are, so it’s understandable perhaps that we want to identify with the prodigal’s experience.

As I sit there in seat 5A, reflecting, I remember vividly my father standing in the driveway welcoming me home. I forget the trip. But I recall as if it was just yesterday my father’s welcome—a happy smile, a great hug (my father’s hugs were bone-crushingly amazing!)

Then the sudden realization crashes like a landslide over me—my father would never be there to welcome me home ever again. Dad died five months ago, and all the tears I couldn’t cry at the time just pour out. I sit there blubbering like an idiot. The woman next to me asks if I’m OK. I just nod and cry some more, turning my face to the window.

Never again. I would never again feel those strong embracing arms around me, never again hear the warm chuckle in his voice, never again know the deep happiness of coming home to my loving father.

In an agony of devastation, my emotional landscape is wiped bare, leaving nothing behind. I cannot go home again, and my father is dead. It’s as if I’m saying that God is dead. Turning to look outside through the tears, I see that the plane is landing through rain clouds, with water streaming across the glass. It seems appropriate enough. Desolation.

In my sadness I want to cry out. The pain of this life is just too much to bear. I am the prodigal, and I have no father to return to. Stuck in the pig-pen of our existence here, I want to go home to my father, but he’s not there.

Then comes the voice, quiet as a whisper, and the more powerful for being so. “I am your Father. I will always welcome you back home.”

How could I forget? With the brilliance of an exploding atomic bomb the light goes on inside my head. Though Dad is gone, my Father lives, and is ready to greet me every time I come back to him, welcoming me back with arms wide open.

Epiphany in seat 5A. Epiphany—meaning the overwhelming experience of the presence of God, in marvelous joy.

Next moment I’m back to earth with a bump, literally. As we taxi to the gate I think of the glorious good news of our heavenly Father, always ready to welcome us prodigals home. My heart sings again the new song, looking forward to being home with my Father forever. I pick up my bags.

Flight attendants probably don’t get too many hugs from departing passengers. But at that moment, it seems the right thing to do, even for this reserved Englishman with a tear-stained face.

“You’re happy today,” she observes with a puzzled smile.

“I’m going home to see my Father,” I explain. “He’s expecting me.”

© Jonathan Gallagher