Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Begin - Being - Binge (08/21/25)
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TITLE: Last Step Home | Previous Challenge Entry
By Jack Taylor
08/26/25 -
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Every step on this road carried the weight of a world long since gone. A weight doubled by ill-spent choices. Choices that slipped away with the glittering coins that had lured him away into a life of binging and emptiness. A life exchanged for the odor of shame.
Tattered rags draped his broken form and mocked his sense of being. His chin rested heavily on his chest, his eyes scanning the caked earth for a morsel of anything. Begin again? What was he thinking? The caws of circling crows seemed to mock his foolishness.
His heart thudded like a drum as memories flooded in: the agony on his father’s face when he had demanded his share; the scorn on his brother’s face as he stepped out to prove himself; the gleaming coins sliding into his pouch and then out as his freedom slipped away.
Being became nobody. Binging became emptiness. Beginning flowed into ending.
Roasted lamb for seed pods. The richest of wines for the poorest of dregs. The finest of flutes and women for the snorting of pigs. No more dancing, laughing, celebrating. No more friends.
The silence squeezed his soul and suffocated his mind. Hunger gnawed at his belly like a wild dog.
Eye to eye with a sow in the mud, he remembered a reality far different. His father’s house, where servants ate their bread with joy. Where love was shared, with generous helpings of joy and grace.
The image empowered his calloused feet to turn back. “I’ll do it,” he told the sow. “I’ll confess, repent, beg for servanthood. I know my father’s heart.”
Rehearsing to the butterflies and beetles raised his confidence as he licked cracked lips and ran clawed fingers through greasy locks.
Questions plagued him, on forgiveness, on shame, on his brother, but the gurgle in his belly drove him on. “I’ll begin again. I’ll binge on the best of bread. I will stop being nothing.”
He sighed, resigning himself to what was ahead. It had to be better than what was behind. He took the step and crested the hill. The roofline still stood as always. The fields waved golden in the breeze. And a single guard stood at the gate, already watching.
And the guardian started running toward him. Where could he go? He had no strength. He looked again as the man raced closer. His breath caught in his throat.
Abba?
Pounding footsteps drew closer. Fear snaked its way up his spine. He collapsed to his knees, searching for the rehearsed speech. “Abba,” gurgled like a raspy breath, bowing, cringing, pleading.
“I’ve sinned against heaven and against you. I’m not worthy –“
His words were choked off in a hurricane of embracing love, strength infusing his heart with hope.
His father’s robes carried the sweetness of soil, figs, and home. Tears running down his neck. His father’s words, rich as honey. “My son, dead and now alive. Lost and now found.”
Shame, fear, filth, and unworthiness fought to assert themselves against the powerful force of love. Grace, hope, forgiveness, and joy beat them down, shrunken by the hugs of a father.
Servants rushed from the house. The father’s wrinkled face lost years in the joy of swallowing his sorrow. “The best robe. The family ring. Sandals for his feet. The fattened calf. Bring the music. Set the feast. The lost is home.”
Could it be? His stomach pretzeled at the thought. To move from binging on pods to binging on meat and bread? To move from being a worthless servant to being an exalted son again? To really begin again?
While the calf was prepared, the son had to be prepared. A quenching of thirst. A washing, a dressing, an anointing. A restoration of dignity, honor, identity, position. This was being, not pretending.
The release of chains snapping struck his heart like a thunderbolt. He was home. He was free. He was a son, able to begin anew. To dance in the freedom of being loved, restored, and forgiven.
Tears raced over his cheeks and chin. No more regret, no more hunger, no more lostness. He had taken the final step home.
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