But last Sunday evening, just as I was sitting down to watch the news, the phone on the kitchen wall rang. It was a jarring sound in the quiet house. I walked over slowly and picked it up, expecting a robo-call. I said "Hello," and was met with a long, heavy silence on the other end. I was about to hang up when I heard a shaky intake of breath and a voice that sounded both familiar and strange, aged by thirty years. "Dad? It’s me. It's Michael." I almost dropped the receiver. My knees went weak, and I had to grab the counter for support. Those three words instantly dissolved thirty years of anger, hurt, and distance.
Michael explained that he had been sitting in a church service across the country that morning. The pastor had preached on the story of the Prodigal Son, and Michael said he felt a physical compulsion—a weight on his chest—telling him he had to call me today. He couldn't explain it, but he knew he couldn't wait another hour. We talked for three hours that night. We cried, we apologized for the stubbornness that had stolen so much time, and he told me about the two grandchildren I had never met. It wasn't a magic fix—we have a lot of years to catch up on—but the bridge was rebuilt. I realized that my thousands of prayers hadn't been ignored; they had been accumulating in heaven, waiting for the exact moment when Michael’s heart was soft enough to listen. It proved to me that love is stronger than pride, and that as long as there is breath, it is never too late to come home.
