The purple vestments of Lent are slowly brightening as Holy Week draws ever nearer. February has transformed into March. Easter was three weeks away from yesterday. I cannot help but think of the prodigal son as I ponder my own journey into the desert. My desert could be the Sonoran where my father lives. Or the close to thirty years I am crossing to be in the same room with him again.
He tells me that he is afraid that he will say or do the wrong thing and I will go away again. I have forgiven him the multitudes of sins he has cast against me, but has he forgiven himself?
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