My youngest son Kevin had moved into his own apartment. Although he lived just across town, I’d not seen him much.

Maybe I’m having empty-nest syndrome, I reasoned. After all, he was the last of my four children to leave home. I tried calling. I tried leaving messages. “Kev,” I’d say, “how come you don’t return my calls?” or “How come you don’t stop by?” or “Don’t you know we miss you?”

Finally I tried what I should have tried first: I sat down at my desk in the study, bowed my head and prayed. I need Your words, Lord, because mine aren’t working. Help me to say the right thing to my son. Amen.

I looked up and noticed the church bulletin on my desk. I’d scrawled a few thoughts on it while listening to the sermon that morning. It was based on one of my favorite Bible stories, the prodigal son, who is welcomed back into the family fold after going off on his own. I read my notes: “No stern sermons, no lectures, no guilt trips. His father, instead, had thrown him a party.”

“Of course, Lord!” I said out loud.

I called Kevin and left a simple message: “Hi, Kev. It’s Mom. I’m cooking your favorites tonight: shrimp and sausage jambalaya, crawfish cornbread, and bread pudding. Come on by!”

That evening after dinner was over and the dishes were done and Kevin had gone back to his apartment, laden with leftovers, I prayed:

Father, thank You for the opportunity not just to listen to my favorite story, but to live it.