The Slapping of Sandals in the Driveway

Before he gets to me. Before he embraces me. Before he starts calling for sandals and a robe and a ring and a barbeque and a shindig. Before all of that. I learn that he is not like any other Father, unlike how I imagined him. Unlike anyone else's Dad.

You see, before all of that, I hear the sound of sandals slapping on the driveway. One of the most trying moments is gathering up my shame and turning up that lane off of the highway. But in response to that turning, I hear that sound. His sandals are slapping,faster and faster toward me down the lane.

You know, based on the speech I had all prepared, that I thought I knew my father. Obviously I didn't. I did not really know my own Father.

Because he came running to find me. He had the will to do all of those things that followed, but first he had the will, the desire, to stand watching for me, determined in advance that he would snatch up the hem of his garment to free his feet, and reward my return with the slapping of his sandals announcing the good news.

My Father loves me. My Father desires to have me near him. My Father does not care if I smell bad. My Father wants me to know these things at the expense of his austere dignity.

Your Father feels the same about you. I know. He told me so over the veal course.