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<DIV><FONT size=4>My favorite story about the waiting father is the old classic
sermon illustration. I would like to share this old favorite story with you. The
young son had gone to San Francisco. He was out of money, out of friends, out of
options. He had hit the bottom and was at wits ends. This lost son wrote a
letter home to his parents living in the Seattle area. He wrote, “Dear Mom and
Dad, I have sinned deeply against you. I have sinned against you and I have
sinned against God and I am not worthy to be called your son. There is no reason
for you to love me or welcome me back home. I am at the bottom of the barrel and
I need to come back home. I hope that you would welcome me. I have been given a
ticket for a train, a ticket to get me back to Seattle.<SPAN
style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </SPAN>The train comes past our farm south of
Seattle. The train comes around the bend and right past our farmhouse. If you
want me to come home, please put a white towel on the clothesline, out in the
back yard near the tracks. I will then know that you want me to come back home.
If there is no towel there, I understand. I will understand that it is not right
for me to come back home.” The young man sent the letter, got on the train, and
started heading north. As he came closer and closer to home, he became more
nervous inside and was pacing up and down the center aisle of the train. As the
train came closer and closer to his farmhouse, he couldn’t bear it anymore. He
was momentarily<SPAN style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </SPAN>sitting next to a
man, and he said to him, “Sir, around this next corner, this next bend, there is
going to be a farm house of the left. A white house. An old red barn behind it.
A dilapidated fence. There will be a clothesline in the back yard. Would you do
me a favor and look and see if there is a white towel hanging on the
clothesline? I know it sounds peculiar, but I can’t bear to look.”<SPAN
style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </SPAN>Well, the train came closer and closer
to the bend and started to go around the bend, and the young man’s heart was
racing as fast as it could. The man said, “Look, look, look. Open your eyes.”
The whole clothesline was covered with white towels. The oak trees were covered
with white sheets. The barn roof was covered with sheets. The old dilapidated
fence was covered with white sheets. There were sheets everywhere. The father
and mother so deeply wanted their son to come back home.<O:P>
</O:P></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><O:P></O:P></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><O:P><A
href="http://www.sermonsfromseattle.com/series_c_the_prodigal_son.htm">http://www.sermonsfromseattle.com/series_c_the_prodigal_son.htm</A></O:P></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><O:P></O:P></FONT></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4>Edward F. <COLOR="#408080" size="2"><FONT
color=#000000>Markquart</FONT></FONT></O:P></DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4>- - - - -</FONT></O:P></DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4></FONT></O:P> </DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4>According to Charles Dickens, the story of the Prodigal
Son, the gospel reading for today, is the finest short story ever written and
told. </FONT></O:P></DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4></FONT></O:P> </DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4><A
href="http://www.sermonsfromseattle.com/series_c_the_lady_of_brimstone_park.htm">http://www.sermonsfromseattle.com/series_c_the_lady_of_brimstone_park.htm</A></FONT></O:P></DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><?XML:NAMESPACE PREFIX = O
/><O:P></O:P></FONT></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4>Edward F. <COLOR="#408080" size="2"><FONT
color=#000000>Markquart</FONT></FONT></O:P></DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4>- - - - -</FONT></O:P></DIV></DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4></FONT></O:P> </DIV></FONT></O:P>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4> Recently the San Francisco Unified School District
questioned several thousand Junior Highs regarding a broad set of issues, from
satisfaction with school to sexual experience. Thirty of every 100 of these
teenagers said they had considered suicide. Fifteen of every 100 had thought
about it seriously enough to make suicide plans, and 6 of every 100 had made at
least one suicide attempt</FONT></O:P></DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4><></FONT></O:P></DIV><FONT size=4><O:P>
<DIV>So, dear one, imagine it! Cut that little girl some slack! Cut that little
boy some slack! God won't mind. Would you believe your heavenly parent might
even smile?</DIV></O:P></FONT>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><O:P><FONT
size=4></FONT></O:P></FONT></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><O:P><FONT size=4><A
href="http://www.csec.org/csec/sermon/landgraf_3801.htm">http://www.csec.org/csec/sermon/landgraf_3801.htm</A></FONT></O:P></FONT></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><O:P><FONT
size=4></FONT></O:P></FONT></FONT></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=2><FONT size=4>John Landgraf,<STRONG>
</STRONG>1994</FONT> </FONT></O:P></DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4>- - - - -</FONT></O:P></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><O:P><FONT size=4></FONT></O:P></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4>I have a daughter named Sarah -- and I can tell you with
absolutely no bias that she is beautiful, talented, bright, marvelous. When she
was just four years old, she entered our church talent show. I accompanied her
on the piano as she sang, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" -- sitting on the piano,
cabaret style. Again, with no bias, I can tell you Judy Garland never sang it
better. After the last note, the audience erupted in applause. We took a bow,
then hurried side-stage where I swooped her up, twirled her around, hugged and
kissed her, and said, "Oh Sarah, I love you." One of my church members was
standing right there, looking at us. She said to me, "I wish my father had done
that." A little slow to catch on, I said, "You wish your father had played the
piano?" She said, "No, I wish my father had loved me."</FONT></O:P></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><O:P><FONT size=4></FONT></O:P></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><O:P><FONT size=4><A
href="http://day1.org/895-the_end_of_all_exploring">http://day1.org/895-the_end_of_all_exploring</A></FONT></O:P></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><O:P><FONT
size=4></FONT></O:P></FONT></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4>James C. Howell, 1996</FONT> </O:P></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT
size=4><O:P><STRONG>- - - -
-</STRONG></O:P></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT
size=4><O:P><STRONG></STRONG></O:P></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><O:P><FONT size=4>...a book by Joyce Rupp called <EM>Praying Your Goodbyes
</EM>. I hadn't. She said it had meant a great deal to her. And a few days after
I returned home, a package came in the mail, bearing a copy of the book.
</FONT></DIV>
<DIV align=left><FONT size=4>The book begins with the author's recalling how she
felt when her brother died. It was her first hard experience of loss. Then she
talks about other losses in her life, and losses in the lives of people she has
known and counseled. Life, she concludes, is a pilgrimage in which we are
constantly losing loved ones and possessions, and at the same time encountering
new people and acquiring new possessions. </FONT></DIV>
<DIV align=left><FONT size=4>That's true, isn't it? Life is like crossing the
country on a wagon train during pioneer days. Looking back, you remember the
tree where you buried a little child, the river where you lost your prized
china, the mountain where a sister fell to her death. But you also recall where
you picked up the stranger who became a dear friend and the trading post where
you purchased the warmest blanket you have ever owned and the visions of those
unforgettable sunsets on the prairies. Life is a pilgrimage of having and
letting go, of letting go and finding new things to replace the old ones.
</FONT></DIV>
<DIV align=left><FONT size=4>About a third of the way into Sister Joyce's
book—she's a member of a Catholic group called the Servite sisters—there is a
wonderful little essay about having everything on loan. She cites an ancient
Aztec prayer that reflects on the wonder and brevity of life, and how all things
fade. "Oh, only for so short a while," it says, "you have loaned us to each
other." This understanding, this attitude, says Sister Joyce, is "the first and
most important attitude of a pilgrim heart." If we can only grasp it, and make
it central to our thinking, it will help to ease us in all our losses. People
and things don't belong to us. They are not ours to keep. We are only on
pilgrimage. We aren't permitted to own or hold on to anything forever. We only
enjoy it—and celebrate it—and let it go.</FONT></DIV></O:P>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT
size=4><FONT
size=4><O:P></O:P></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT
size=4><FONT size=4><O:P><A
href="http://www.csec.org/csec/sermon/killinger_4221.htm">http://www.csec.org/csec/sermon/killinger_4221.htm</A></O:P></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT
size=4><FONT
size=4><O:P></O:P></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT
size=4><FONT size=4><O:P>John Killinger
</O:P></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT
size=4><FONT size=4><O:P>- - - -
-</O:P></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT size=4><FONT
size=4><FONT
size=4><O:P></O:P></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT></FONT> </DIV></BODY></HTML>