*The following is the prologue to my novel formerly titled The Long Way Off
.
“Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found. So they began to celebrate.” Luke 15:23-24
On the day when the last iris petal kissed the grass, the
slaughtering of Elizabeth Matthews’ fattened calf occurred at an old stone
church across the world from where her wayward journey began. Devoid of biblical
fanfare, there were no party guests to share in the feast. In fact, the only
witnesses were the petrified wooden pews with their everlasting crevasses
trapping the whispered prayers of both the faithful and unfaithful for
centuries. Beneath her face-cradling hands, tiny starbursts darkened the dusty
stones as each salty tear carried away the grief and shame that prodigal living
cruelly imbues until the time of redemption.
The feast’s celebratory music had been replaced by the call
of a petite yellow-breasted bird in the rafters, a rising ra-ta-tat-tat like
she used to hear a mile outside the stadium on Autumn Saturdays. She pondered
the meaning of the blue tit’s song. Was it a prayer of humble repentance mimicking
those who, once suffused in the beauty of Monet’s gardens, found their souls frightfully
revolting? Was it a hymn absorbed after
a lifetime living above the worshipful voices of the Église Sainte-Radegonde de
Giverny? Was it the bird’s call to her long-lost love who still haunted the
hollow of her bones without invitation? Or was it a
jester’s taunt, unimpressed by a common American girl traveling across land and
sea to forget whom she left behind?
The celebration’s only dancing was the waltz between the Father
and his beloved daughter, not unlike the one she had futilely imagined at her
wedding. Each graceful step was a benediction of the gospel displayed in her
life. Beneath his shoulders, encircled by his loving arms, she now saw through
the myth that a prodigal child is ever able to escape the love and mercy of the
Father. The Lord had always been there, watching her in her foolish
stubbornness protecting her when she didn’t care enough to protect herself,
loving her unconditionally as she desperately tested just how wide and far and
deep his love is.
Light illuminated the stained glass to her right. She
imagined her own life depicted in the careful coordination of colored glass.
All the tragedy, betrayal, temptation and fear that had ruled her began to
quake. One by one, fragmented shards of crimson, emerald, and cobalt fell to
the ground. The old has gone, the new has come.
Elizabeth, with only tears of joy remaining on her lightly
freckled skin, arose taller than she had stood upon entering the church. The blue
tit held its call as it listened to the creaking pew and the soft pats of
Elizabeth’s feet against the limestone like a patient counselor allowing words
to slowly drip from the client’s tongue. When the girl with a Midwestern accent
and the loose curls dislodged the thick wooden door, a fresh breeze replaced
the dank, musty air and her lungs rejoiced along with her soul.
On the threshold, she pulled out the ring Brian had given
her almost four years ago. She turned the ring between her fingers slightly,
allowing the sun’s rays to frolic across the precious stone. It was an
artifact. Like those in a museum, it told a story. Her story.
An older woman hobbled up the crooked steps. In her eight
months working at the Old Hotel Baudy, Elizabeth had come to know her as Henriette.
Widowed thirty-two years, she prayed at the church every day at noon. Elizabeth
grasped her small hand and uncurled her spindly fingers in a gentle manner
consistent with her every encounter. In Henriette’s palm, she placed the ring,
knowing it could feed her for a full year. She descended the steps before
Henriette had finished thanking her. The ring wasn’t meant for her. If she was
honest with herself, she knew it wasn’t the day she had accepted it from Brian,
even before she first saw the green eyes that were so instrumental in piercing
holes in her painstakingly preserved mirage of a joyful life.
Daniel. She felt an all too familiar pang of longing pierce
beneath her sternum. Time and redemption could not quell his lingering
presence.
Isn’t it exhilarating
and perhaps even a little frightening how our whole world can change with just
one choice? To fight or to surrender. To love or to discard. To stay or to
return.
Daniel had spoken like the true prodigal that he was. Even
now, years later, Elizabeth was still mesmerized by those words and the courage
that birthed them. She could still see his eyes dancing to the impassioned
rhythm of his voice. Maybe she and Daniel weren’t so different after all.
Ra-ta-tat-tat. Elizabeth
turned her eyes back to the steeple, shielding her eyes. The blue tit appeared
from under the eave. She paused a moment, cocked her head in Elizabeth’s
direction and repeated her call before soaring away from the Church of Giverny,
disappearing into the brilliance of the noonday sun.
The Holy Spirit whispered into Elizabeth’s soul and her chin
gave a slight, worshipful nod. She twisted a curl around her finger and pulled
it taut. When it sprung back into place in front of her ear, her lips curved in
an incredulous smirk, as she prepared to return to the town she had once so
desperately fled. In that moment, she debated whether she should hope for life
in Neverell, Ohio and its inhabitants to be different or completely the same.
Regardless, she knew she could rely on the unconditional companionship of her
Savior and it was all the assurance she needed to face her past.
