The road shimmered in the heat, stretching into a haze that could have been an ocean or a mirage or simply the air deciding to trick your eyes. The same road Johnny had taken when he left, all flash and bravado. Back then, his white stallion kicked up dust in defiance, the two money bags slung over its flanks like promises waiting to be fulfilled. He had tilted his hat, a casual gesture, as though he were tipping his destiny toward adventure. He waved once—an easy, careless flick of the hand—and then he was gone.

Johnny had always been a spectacle, a raw-boned man with a smile like a crack of sunlight through clouds. The kind of man girls dreamed of but never pinned down. “Why’s the sky so blue?” he had mused to his father, not really waiting for an answer. “Why does the sun shine so bright? I’m going to roll in beaches and swim in liquor and find out.”

And then he rode off.

Now, here he was again. Not riding, but walking. Dragging, almost. The road hadn’t changed, but Johnny had. No stallion. No money bags. His hat was gone, and so was his swagger. His clothes hung off him in tatters, and his face—a map of scars, wrinkles and shadows—looked like it belonged to someone who had walked through fire and been spat out the other side.

I watched him come closer, slow and deliberate, as if each step cost him something. “Johnny?” I said, though I already knew it was him. His name tasted strange on my tongue, as though it had aged alongside him. “What, on God’s green earth, happened? You look like you’ve been trampled by a hundred horses.”

“A thousand horses, not counting the mules and donkeys,” he said, and there it was—that flicker of humor, dim but alive. He smiled, or tried to, the corners of his mouth curling upward as if remembering how.

Then came the pounding of hooves, a sound that felt like the past rushing to catch up with the present. His father rode up, dismounted with a speed that belied his years, and threw his arms around Johnny – stinking, dirty Johnny. The old man didn’t care about the dirt or the smell or the way Johnny sagged like a scarecrow in his grasp. He held him as if he were clutching the boy he’d lost and not the man who’d returned. He beamed and had a twinkle in his eyes as he kissed Johnny’s dirty forehead.

Johnny tried to speak, stumbling over the words. Something about sin, about heaven and earth and being unworthy. He wanted to be a servant, he said, not a son. The old man silenced him with a look—a look that said, Enough.

Johnny had always been a handful for the old man. Have you ever heard of a son asking his pa to give him his own share of the property while the pa was still on this side of eternity? Johnny did just that. His father obliged him, probably not because he was right, but because Johnny’s soul had left home, and the old man wanted him to go to whereever his heart was. After Johnny left, the old man never talked about him. Asked whether he should send people to look for him, he would reply that bringing him back without bringing back his soul would go against the principle which caused him to divide his properties in two and give half to Johnny. He would have to come back on his own.

Johnny tried again. He said life had been hard on him and he had sinned against heaven and earth and his father. He wanted his father to accept him back as a servant. I was aghast! That was a dangerous gambit because I had been the foreman around there for like an eternity and a year. And this Johnny guy was here hunting my position.

But I need not have worried. They bathed him, shaved him, dressed him in clean clothes. He emerged like a ghost stepping out of its burial shroud. The past was not discussed. The money bags, the stallion—none of it mattered. What mattered was that Johnny was back.

But not everyone saw it that way. No, not Big Mark.

Mark, Johnny’s older brother, came home that evening, and when he saw the celebration—the music, the feast, the calf roasted to perfection—his face darkened. Mark, who had stayed. Mark, who had worked. Mark, who had earned. His anger was not loud, but it was sharp, coiled tight like a spring. Mark could outride any man in the ranch, and he could haul more hay than anyone else. He was a serious-minded guy who smiled sparingly. The fear of Mark’s anger was the beginning of wisdom in the ranch.

“I’ve been here all along,” Mark said to his father, his voice steady but simmering. “Working, sweating, being everything you needed me to be. And yet here you are, throwing a party for him.” He didn’t say Johnny’s name. He didn’t have to.

The old man sighed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of what Mark couldn’t see. “Everything I have is yours,” he said softly. “Always has been. But this—this is your brother. He was dead, and now he’s alive. He was lost, and now he’s found.”

Mark didn’t reply, not right away. His hands, large and calloused, rested on the table, motionless. For the first time, perhaps, he saw his place—not as a worker, not as a cowhand, but as the heir. The one who had stayed. The Chief Executive Officer.

The farm changed after that. Mark moved into the role he was always meant to fill, running things with the efficiency of a man who didn’t tolerate excuses. Johnny, for his part, found his place as well—no longer the prodigal, but something softer, quieter, humbled by the weight of what he’d almost lost. The old man retreated into the background, watching his sons with the faint smile of someone who had lived long enough to understand that love, like land, must be cultivated carefully.

From that day we never saw Mark on the farm anymore. He set up a big spacious office near the farm and sat there to receive reports and monitor what was happening in the farm. The talk went around the farm that Mark was calling the shots, and Mark knew every stack of cards a man could deal. No one monkeyed with Mark, for his razor-sharp eyes could always spot a hole in any report. He read everything and checked out what needed to be checked out. We saw less of the old man. Even Johnny got serious at work as the deputy president. Wonders, like the ancients said, would never cease.

I overheard Mark and Johnny chatting once. Johnny asked Mark jokingly, “Why did you not come looking for your dear brother?” Mark replied, “No man goes looking for a grown man except the grown man is wanted by the law or in prison or in trouble. More so, we knew you would come to yourself and come home. God waits for everyone to come to himself and return to Him. That is the example.”

Well, the longest river winds towards the sea and my tour of duty had to end. I was getting old and losing the magic. Big Mark told me to build a mansion for him by the seaside and that was my last chore as far as he was concerned. So, after I completed the mansion, I went up to him as he sat in his office drinking raw coffee.

“Mark, a man should know when to hang his boots and I think my time to hang my boots is up,” I said as I settled into the chair in front of him.

“Where are you retiring to? I heard Roman soldiers destroyed your house for housing rebels.” He looked at me with concern in his eyes.

“I have got some savings. I will fix something up with a roof over my head. Do not bother about me, Mark, I am Father Tough. I am tougher than crocodile hide.”

“You did a mighty nice job with that house by the Sea of Galilee. It is such a beautiful and magnificent house. Thank you plenty.”

“Mark, it has been a great experience riding the trail with you. Guess what? Thank God your brother came back. He was restored to sonship and restored to his status. Through his coming back, you were restored to leadership and learned from your dad that you own all this stuff here. And from that time, you have provided leadership, motivation, inspiration, and direction for this work in a way your father could not. You are amazing.”

“There is one more restoration,” Mark’s voice was slow and measured. “That house by the Sea of Galilee is your restoration for the house destroyed by the Romans. We had to follow God’s example. What Job lost, God restored double. We can never repay you enough and you are welcome here anytime.” He stood up and handed the keys to the house to me.

I was stunned. I was dumbfounded. Earlier in life, I wanted a house by the seashore but never dreamt of such a great and gorgeous mansion. Now here it was. It was then it occurred to me how my ancestors felt when the LORD turned again captivity of Zion. I was like them in that dream. Then was my mouth filled with laughter, and my tongue with singing: then said they among my friends, The LORD hath done great things for me. The LORD hath done great things for me; whereof I am glad.

(The story of the Prodigal Son through my eyes)