He was exhausted
Beaten
Tired
Wasted
Starved
And lost.
The wanderer's eyes scanned the horizon, for any relief. The mud pool looked promising, but upon closer inspection, it was only a pile of dung. The wanderer continued on, for a purpose, a purpose only recently found, a purpose long forgotten. His footprints stretched for miles behind him, no wind to cover up where he'd been, no wind to comfort him now. His clothes in rags and hanging off his shoulders, he continued on, searching, searching, searching…..
At last, the familiar houses and gardens, the ivy creeping up the walls, people, more people, all around him. He continued on, barely conscious, barely remembering the purpose, barely alive. At last, the house. His eyes wandered over each brick, each plant, each window, remembering…… remembering how it use to be, how good it was… and.. who was that? A familiar figure, standing in the doorway. The wanderer trembled, and fell on his knees before the figure, the walking stick falling on the ground beside him. Not daring to look, too ashamed of his mistakes, he said the words planned long ago.
"Father, I have sinned. I am no longer good enough to be called your son. Please, let me be a servant in your house."
The wanderer did not look up, he did not see the figure stretch out his arms, tears in his eyes, running toward him. He did not look up at all, until he felt his Father's arms around him, and looking up with shock clearly written on his face, he heard the words that he would never forget.
"My son, my precious child,"
"Welcome Home."