Rembrandt Project

 Rembrandt Project

Father’s Part:

I could not believe my eyes when I saw a skinny, ragged, and dirty man limping his way to the door. It had been many years, but as he got closer, I could not forget the familiar slumped shoulders and shining blue eyes. Everything else grows and changes, but the eyes never change. My son finally made his way back home. All the memories rushed back to me. The memory of the day he demanded I give him his inheritance played in my mind. He had spoken with so much anger in his voice as he spewed so many hateful things. I remembered standing there in utter silence without knowing what to do next when he left. I not only wondered, but I prayed that he would someday come back. He was back, now, and that is all that mattered. I think of all those sleepless nights spent wondering where he was, if he was safe, or ever coming back. I had envisioned and dreamed about this moment countless times, but it did not prepare me for this marvelous reality. My son was not the same as when he left. The confident and prideful young man had been replaced by a scrawny and broken beggar. He had scars and bruises all over his body, clothes that were barely hanging on, and he was barely standing. He dropped down to his knees, sobbing and begging for forgiveness as he confessed his wrongdoings. He said he felt unworthy, and he would work as a servant for me. All of that meant very little to me in the moment; all I saw was my beautiful son, who had been gone for years, finally home. I helped him up, pulled him close and tight, so tight I could feel how skinny he had gotten. I told him that the tough conversations could wait; now was a time to celebrate my son returning to us. I could feel the judgment from everyone around us. They all wondered, rightfully so, how I could forgive him and celebrate his return so quickly. They surely questioned how I could not be furious with him, how I could not at least discipline him in some way. But, they did not understand that a father’s love is unconditional and does not hold grudges. My love for him did not fade or waver, even though he did me wrong. I waited, stayed up all hours of the night, and prayed that my son would someday return. He has finally returned, and there is no greater gift than that. My prayers have finally been answered, so why would I ruin that with anger and frustration? My child was once lost, but now he has been found. I have been blessed, so I believe I should treat it as such. 

Older Brother’s Part:

I wring my hands together on the thin cane I’m holding and look down at my brother’s face. My father was so quick to comfort him, so quick to throw away everything he had done wrong just to have a peaceful homecoming, as if none of those things mattered anymore. When he came and admitted the wrongs he had done against both heaven and my father, claiming he was not worthy to be called my father’s son anymore and asking to be taken back as a servant, I half expected—or perhaps wanted—to see my brother slapped in the face by my father and reprimanded for his careless actions, then thrown out again until he earned back what he had squandered. But my father uttered not one word in anger, but hugged my brother immediately. I stare blankly at my brother as my father softly consoles him. I was the one who stayed, the one who comforted Father when he heard of his son’s careless actions, and now that same comfort he shows to the one who caused his sorrow. My father’s grief for years was caused by the weeping excuse of a man before him. And now that same man causes more tears from my father, but this time they are tears of joy.

I glance at my father briefly, wondering if he even notices me. But he doesn’t. I’m just a figure in the background, expected to celebrate just like him. I look around at the other faces in the room, still half-confused, watching my father wrap my brother in a fierce hug as if none of us were standing here. I grip the cane tighter. I am not like my father, and I cannot celebrate like him, acting as if the past years of my brother’s life never happened. I look down at my brother sitting there in beggar’s clothes while my father and I wear our matching red robes. It seems there is someone who does not belong. But my father overlooks the filthy clothes, the empty pockets, the hollow expression—and cries out that his son has returned. But his true son was here the whole time. And what do I get for it? Nothing, while my brother receives tears of joy.

I finally turn and walk out of the room, leaving them to enjoy their careless revelry without me. Outside, I hear my father call for a celebration. Music begins to rise, and I hear laughter, clapping, the clatter of dishes being brought out, a feast for the brother who left. I stand in the quiet courtyard, the cane pressed into the dirt beneath me. I wonder if my father will come looking for me, the way he searched the road day after day for my brother. But the door behind me stays shut, and the celebration only grows louder. If my father could forgive a son who abandoned him…would he have welcomed me too, if I had been the one to leave?

The Young Woman Behind The Pillar

It had been another splendid, sunny day, ruined as usual only by the exhaustion that dogged me all day like the yoke on the family ox. Sleepless nights were no stranger to me, as I lay awake fighting with various fears swirling around in my head. I came to this household out of desperation, a famine in my home country having forced me to leave behind my father’s house and seek work as a servant in a faraway region. Obviously, this was a disgraceful path in life, especially for the daughter of a freeman, but I didn’t fancy the idea of starving to death on the side of a road somewhere. I expected some hard knocks, sore bones, and to have to sacrifice my ego at the altar of a good wage, but I didn’t expect the fear of the unknown. Like a drum, the same thoughts would repeat in my head every night. “It’s only a matter of time before the master takes a stick to my back when I inevitably fail some task…” “I wonder if my father and mother are even alive or if they’ve shriveled into bones by now…” “The master’s oldest son keeps yelling at me for no reason, I hope he doesn't get me fired…” But tonight, something happened that I didn’t ever see coming. The master’s youngest son, a lecherous idiot who had slandered his father, then demanded his inheritance in the kitchen one night and left the morning after to go do Lord knows what, had stumbled in through the door to beg for mercy: and the Master had dropped everything and embraced His son. I mean, the scandal and shame this kid had caused the family was generational, but none of that seemed to matter to Him, just that His son was safe and sound. The way He looked at him and the grace in His voice was like a transfer: His good name and honor covering the error of His lost son. Now, after seeing that, it’s not so easy to be afraid anymore. I knew my Master was a kind man, but more than that I now know He extends His kindness even to people who don’t deserve it, and this gives me a strange peace… like I’m at home, even in a foreign land.