He was a weed in God's garden.

He was self-consumed, and eschewed human interaction, much less relationships. He railed at passers-by with incoherent and often profane language. His home was an abandoned shack, that was cold and shook violently from frequent passing trains. He ate what he could salvage from trash bins.

He grew up in quite different environs. His father, a prosperous businessman, provided well for his family and doted on the children he loved.

But as he grew older, he also grew to despise his father. Hated him for his wealth. For his charity. For everything.

And so he stole from his father and left. In a downward spiral of alcohol, drugs, waste, excess - he plummeted to the bottom. Unrecognizable to those who knew him before.

The father never stopped loving, never stopped praying for his son. The world saw only a useless weed. An annoyance. A thing to be avoided. The father saw his beautiful son. His door was forever open, when the wayward son finally came home.

My reflection on The Prodigal Son. People we see are never beyond hope.