For some years now, I’ve been thinking that Prodigal Son’s dad was a single parent.

You know the story, don’t you?  The parable of a property owning dad with two sons, the younger of whom demands his share of the family inheritance while his father is still living and immediately goes off to squander it away on, shall we say, an ‘inappropriate’ lifestyle.  Finally, having got to rock bottom, he decides to swallow his pride, return home, and seek the forgiveness of his father – who welcomes him with open arms and kills the fatted calf in celebration – much to the annoyance of his jealous elder brother.

Perhaps I am alone here, but have you ever noticed how the boy’s mother is never once mentioned?  The longest parable that Jesus ever told and the person who brought these children into the world doesn’t even get a mention!  Was she not permitted to be the first to greet her long-lost son?  Was she too hurt by his initial disappearance to welcome him back upon his return?  Or perhaps she was not there at all?  Perhaps the story of this particular dad was of trying to manage a growing business, whilst also desperately trying to bring up two teenage boys in a way that would have made her proud?

Of course, we’ll never know.  But it’s interesting to note that when Rembrandt, in 1661, came to paint the Return of the Prodigal Son, he did an extraordinary thing.

Just look at the hands!

As the late writer and Catholic priest, Henri Nouwen, once pointed out:

“It all began with the hands. The two are quite different. The father's left hand touching the son's shoulder is strong and muscular. The fingers are spread out and cover a large part of the prodigal son's shoulder and back. I can see a certain pressure, especially in the thumb. That hand seems not only to touch, but, with its strength, also to hold. Even though there is a gentleness in the way the father's left hand touches his son, it is not without a firm grip.

How different is the father's right hand! This hand does not hold or grasp. It is refined, soft, and very tender. The fingers are close to each other and they have an elegant quality. It lies gently upon the son's shoulder. It wants to caress, to stroke, and to offer consolation and comfort. It is a mother's hand....” (Henri J. M. Nouwen, Return of the Prodigal Son.  1992)

For many of us, yesterday was Mother’s Day – a day on which we rightly celebrate the love, nourishment and comfort that our mums will have offered us throughout the formative years of our life.  But now I’m thinking about all the single parents out there who, for whatever reason, have to wear both hats (or hands) and play the part of mum and dad to their children.

It’s not easy playing two characters in the story of modern family life, that’s for sure.  It’s not easy to know when to apply a strong grip and when to caress, stoke and offer comfort.

So spare a thought today for single dads and mums everywhere who, like the father of the Prodigal Son all those years ago, are trying their best to hold the whole thing together and make it work.

And, above all, remember to celebrate with them when it does.

Mémé was a typically old-fashioned, old lady who loved the tradition of being given a sprig of muguet (‘lily of the valley’) on the first of May.

Apparently, this typically French tradition stretches back as far 1561, when King Charles IX of France received a lily of the valley as a lucky charm and subsequently decided to offer the flower each year to the ladies of his court.  By the beginning of the twentieth century, the flower had become a symbol of springtime, presented to loved ones who offer a kiss in return.

Mémé just loved that kind of thing and not just because it represented an age of chivalry and noble love that had so obviously been absent throughout her own unhappy marriage.  You see, it also meant that her doorbell rang with visitors for almost the entire day; and rather than constantly getting up from her favorite wooden chair, she would simply leave the key next to her window – so that those who knew her could reach inside, take the key and let themselves in.  By the end of the day, this simple home would be filled with the springtime scent of a person being loved.

Yesterday, we went as a family to take muguet again to Mémé.  This time, however, it took us by a different route to the gates of our local cemetery.

The fact that our youngest, five-year old girls still don’t quite understand was immediately apparent as we drove through the entrance of this huge garden of remembrance.

‘Wow!  Does this all belong to Mémé, now?’ asked one of the children innocently.

Personally, I still find it both disturbing and fascinating to visit these places.  As hard as I try, I simply can’t get my head around the terrible fact of non-existence – the fact that the person that I can still see and hear so clearly in my mind is now only kept alive by these fading memories of years past. 

The girls, meanwhile, continue to discuss and try to make sense of the situation between themselves.

‘So is Mémé under that stone?  Why is she there?’

‘Because she’s dead.  But she’s not under the stone, she’s in the sky.’

Suddenly, Léa is distracted.  She has noticed another gravestone with her name on it.

‘Look!  There’s my name: L-E-A.  But I’m not dead.  It must be another Léa.’

Driving back home, there a quietness in the car and I wonder how much sense this makes to the children.  How much can they take in?  How much, if anything at all, do they remember of their great grandmother while she was alive?  Do they remember the taste of her crepes or the stock of sweets she used to keep in the cupboard?  Do they recall the way she sat at her table all day, next to her phone, waiting for the next call? Or the secret stash of cash, bills and official documents, so obviously ‘hidden’ under the dining-room table cloth?

Over dinner, we found ourselves again discussing how it was possible that Mémé now ‘lived’ in the sky.  Was she flying a plane or living on a cloud?  Juliette suddenly interjected. 

‘She’s not in the sky, in fact.  She’s here now, sitting at the table with us.’

And who knows, perhaps in an odd way, she was right.