Prodigal Daughter: Belonging Comes from Within

Growing up Catholic meant I was raised on parables long before I ever learned what a “parable” actually was. To me, they were the stories priests told during homilies, as I envisioned a dusty village where people walked around in leather sandals, carrying woven baskets of bread and fruit. These stories always ended with a moral that made me feel vaguely guilty, even if I’d done nothing wrong that week.

My earliest memory of a parable is sitting in a pew, swinging my legs, trying to pretend I understood why the shepherd would abandon ninety-nine perfectly good sheep just to find the one rogue lamb. Even at nine years old, this felt fiscally irresponsible. But Catholic kids don’t question the economics of God—we just nod politely and absorb the lesson, which in this case ultimately felt something like, “You matter even if you’re weird, rebellious, or wandering aimlessly into a ravine.” 

Okay, then. This I can get behind.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time side-eyeing the Prodigal Son, a parable that feels less like a moral lesson and more like one of those family group texts gone wrong. 

The eldest son takes his inheritance early, blows it on bad decisions and hideous friends, crawls home smelling like livestock, and isn’t greeted with a reprimand but instead given a parade, a robe, and a catered event.

While the other son, the one who stayed, worked, obeyed the rules, and didn’t fund a single debauchery, is left standing there like, “Um, so this is how we’re rewarding responsibility now?”

The lesson of this parable is about mercy. And yes, mercy is quite lovely. But I’ve always suspected Jesus lost his place in telling this story, since he showed no respect for the sibling who stayed behind, folded the laundry, fed the pets, and watched their brother torch the family's resources until there was nothing left for anyone else. Because if you’ve ever been that sibling, the parable lands less like divine wisdom and more like a cautionary tale about enabling.

For years, I admittedly assumed I had been firmly cast as the Prodigal Daughter in my family. I left home early, and for reasons that made people clutch their rosaries. Being gay had a way of fast-tracking me into the role of black sheep, even if it was all in my imagination. I’ll admit, there were moments when I secretly hoped for the parade part of the story. Or at least a banner that read” Welcome Home, We’ve processed everything, and we’ll all be okay.” I imagined crossing some invisible threshold where everyone would say, “You made it. You’re here. Let’s throw a party and talk about how far we’ve all come.”

Instead, what I got, now that I’m home primarily for real and not just visiting, is the sobering realization that my family does not, in fact, gather constantly in warm Norman Rockwell moments when I’m not around. No one is sitting down to the weekly dinners I thought I’d been missing out on all these years. No one is lighting candles and breaking bread together, unless you count Saturday mornings when my sister delivers fresh farm products to my parents' house. I have had to wrangle the absolute shit out of these people just to get everyone in the same room at the same time. Thank God Dad drops in to see me on occasion when he has an extra four hours to kill until his next chauffeuring gig. Family dinner every week? Why not? The prodigal daughter is home, people. Where is my goat? Where is my fatted anything?

Truth be told, I’ve always had a deep, unexpected sympathy for the brother who stayed. The one who did everything right. The one whose faithfulness didn’t come with fireworks. Because it turns out that staying and holding things together and doing the unglamorous work of family is its own quiet heroism. (obviously not from personal experience, but you get my drift)

Humor aside, I wouldn’t trade this closeness to my family for anything, even as I attempt a hybrid life between Austin and Kansas City—a life that has quietly, but persistently, reclassified itself as “mostly Kansas City.” Living near my parents, my siblings, my aunts and uncles, my cousins, my high-school besties…it feels like I’m being folded back into my own life. No trumpets. No procession. Just presence. And maybe that’s the deeper parable here. The holy, ridiculous work of figuring out how to continue loving each other in times when we see things differently, or hold beliefs that clash. Or wishing family dinners could be a priority for everyone, while crashing my aunt and uncle’s Sunday feasts just to satiate the longing. I guess not having a parade isn’t so bad when you catch a glimpse of your dad smiling with a sentimentality that silently says, “No matter what, I’m glad you’re home.”

Sigh.

Honestly, parables and Catholicism are probably why I became a storyteller. If you hear enough vineyard allegories and fig-tree metaphors, you eventually start narrating your own life in the same tone. 

I used to think being the prodigal meant leaving. Turns out, it mostly means returning with better boundaries and a sharper sense of humor. The distance gives you perspective, and the return gives you humility. Home isn’t a place that stays the same; it’s a place that remembers you even when you’ve changed your shoes, your politics, or who you love.

Thanks for walking with me. Stories need witnesses, and I don’t take that lightly. I’m grateful you’re here. 

I love imagining those old village gatherings with dusty roads, leather sandals, and baskets of bread passed hand to hand. And while we’ve traded blisters and flies for screens and coffee mugs, the heart of it feels the same. People gathered and bearing witness to perspectives that might just make us think a bit differently about the world and our fellow humans. Kind of like Jesus did, just without the responsibility of being the savior of the world and all. 😉