Swine Flew

A letter to a prodigal son:

Dear Son,

   It is coming upon the one year of your leaving us and cutting off all communication from home. We do not know how you did in basic training in Texas, how things went in tech school at Biloxi or at Mobile at Kessler AFB. We do not know how the move went to Japan to Misawa Air Base, where we assume you are now. We have no idea how Nathaniel our grandson feels about losing so suddenly his beloved pappa, or his grandma and great grandma or Uncle Jordon or cousins, Pearce and Carson he has never seen.
It had to affect him for a time, for when he woke up that March day, the first thing he asked for was pappa, going all over the trailer and yard looking for me.
You have affected a cruel and unusual punishment upon your family and friends who loved you. The false offense you based this upon, that we were interfering with your marriage, is a lame and baseless excuse.
You are simply being lazy and belligerent in your separation from us. Yes, we hold ourselves to blame, but we came to you, and you know it, with humble, open arms asking forgiveness and restoration. And for whatever reason, you have chosen to keep that channel closed, not allowing us the opportunity to even express our willingness to confess our sins. In that, the burden for the sin now rests upon your head.
I wish so badly that I could get a letter or a word to you, and it would affect the change in you that would open again the communication between us. I know that in your younger years, I was not the prime example of a father. I was working way too much at a stressful job, allowing your mother to stay home and raise you.
I know early on we spent many happy days in the woods and waters together, and I do feel we were close. When Nathaniel came along, I poured myself into him, perhaps too much, in an effort to make up for any short comings I may have failed in you. And when on that day I last saw him, and I knew it would be the last time, well, from that day until now, my heart has grown weaker and weaker with sentiment and sorrow.
We simply exist here in your imposed exile and I trust this is pleasing to you. I trust that you are seeking God through all this, as you were so ardently before you left for basic training. That same fervor that wanted to be a missionary.
But fervor I find, has a way of floundering upon low hurdles and I fear that you have allowed hurdles to impede you. You have chosen a path beyond the track, a cross country if you will.
I too attempted that journey, without compass or pack, thinking I was sufficient in self. But as I did,  and you will eventually find,  you are hopelessly lost and too far from home, with a longing to return fading as well. The longer you wait, you will never make it home. Like little Nathaniel, the memory will be gone.
Home too will be gone if you happen find it. Return while there is time.  While the lights remain on. The fire sticks you made are waiting for you to spark the flame again in the old syrup kettle.