The Prodigal Son by tom weston

The Prodigal Son A Tom Weston Story

The Prodigal Son

Albrecht D端rer, The Prodigal Son among the Swine, 1497-1498

funeral brings out the best in some people. Unfortunately, as we gathered in the Green Dragon Tavern for the post-funeral reception, and as the people in question were the naysayers, the best meant the worst. The naysayers spoke, or I should I say, whispered, as is their manner. “It just goes to show how some people can change,” they whispered. “It just goes to show how some people don’t change at all,” I thought. They uttered small, unworthy remarks about people who rose above their station and turned their

The Prodigal Son backs on their family. They whispered cold, calculated words about people who are given everything, but don’t express gratitude. They could have talked of anyone, for the naysayers seemed to hold this opinion of most people, but in this case, they spoke specifically of the young man who stood at the other end of the room (for they meant that the whispers should reach him anonymously). The man’s name was Samael Percy, but we all knew him as Little Sam, to differentiate him from his father, Big Sam. The joke was that Big Sam was quite short in stature and Little Sam had grown up to tower over his father by a good foot. I speak of Big Sam in the past tense, for I had mentioned a funeral, and on this sad occasion, Little Sam had come home to bury his old dad. Like many around here, Big Sam, as with his father and grandfathers before him, had made his living as a farmer. It was the talk of the Tavern when Little Sam announced he was leaving the farm. Not that his departure left too much of a hardship for Big Sam or the farm, for Little Sam was just one of six brothers, but as Big Sam’s eldest son, he was always expected to run the family business one day. But he had gone away. 2

The Prodigal Son Little Sam’s talents lay as a jeweler. I remember him as a boy: shy and withdrawn, short of words, and his eyes averted when he spoke. His pockets were always full of wire, polished stone, and bits of broken glass which he carefully fashioned into miniature works of art, rings and broaches, pins and buckles, and so forth. He loved his work and he had a talent for it, but there’s not much call for that sort of thing in the village. Many considered that he just wasted his time in idle fancy, and some told him so directly. Had he only contented himself with farm equipment, or thatch, or something else of practical use; that would have served him better as far as the good folk around here were concerned. But he wanted to be a jeweler, so he had gone away. “Broke his poor mother’s heart,” whispered the naysayers. “Shirked his responsibilities, neglected his duty to those who raised him.” The naysayers whispered and those who should have known better solemnly nodded their heads in agreement. Others questioned his sanity. His early days in the city saw him struggle. He had no friends or independent means; his circumstance and opportunities were meager. Now, farming around the 3

The Prodigal Son village is not a path to untold riches by any means, but at least his brothers had bread and meat on their dinner plates. But he never considered it a hardship or a risk, for he did what he loved. One day in the City, while trying to barter one of his hand-made trinkets for a meal, a jeweler of note recognized his talent and took him on as an apprentice. He slept under his work bench, applied himself to his work, and learned his craft. And day by day, piece by piece, he thrived, and his work became highly prized. He opened his own shop. Eventually his work came to the attention of the king, who appointed Little Sam as Jeweler to the Crown. Rich and successful to be sure. And over the years, as his fame and fortune grew, he did not forget his parents. He visited them when he could. He sent them gifts. He invited them to the City, but of course, life on a farm made the invitations difficult to accept. But nothing he did made the naysayers change their opinion of him. “The visits are to lighten a guilty conscience,” they would whisper. “The gifts are boastful demonstrations of his new found wealth. Look at him over there; how arrogant he stands; too proud even to talk to the likes of us.” Little Sam glanced their 4

The Prodigal Son way and they raised the glasses of ale which he had purchased for them, even as they whispered. And those who should have known better nodded their heads in agreement. I wandered over to him and paid my respects. “Your father was quite a character in these parts,” I said. “He will be missed.” “Yes,” agreed Little Sam. “Suppose we won’t have to call you Little Sam any more? Just Sam will do hereafter.” “I used to hate people calling me Little Sam,” he said. “Now, it doesn’t seem so bad.” I heard the whispers, and I knew Little Sam also heard them, even if he didn’t acknowledge them. “Don’t mind the naysayers, Sam,” I said. “You have done well. Your father was proud of you.” “I must say I am surprised by their coldness towards me. I am and always will be a villager, even though I now live far away.” “Perhaps it is the sadness of the day, or perhaps they think that you are cold towards them? You never had much to say as I remember, and some may confuse your shyness for disdain.” “It is hard to talk to them. They have no interest in my work. I have no understanding of theirs.” 5

The Prodigal Son “Enquire after their families and homes,” I urged. “Even that is hard. I am a man without a home,” said Little Sam. “I am treated differently here because of my present position. At court, I am treated differently because of my origins. I try to fit everywhere, but it seems I fit nowhere.” The parables tell us of the Prodigal Son, who was welcomed home after squandering his fortune and life. How ironic, yet typical, that Little Sam, who created things of great beauty, a fortune and purpose to his life, found no welcome at home. But then, that is because the naysayers, once again, had got it completely wrong. Little Sam had not changed. He had not become arrogant or cold. We had! Little Sam had left the village and now he was no longer one of us. Had he turned his back on us? Or we on him? Those who knew better nodded their heads in agreement.