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RUBRIC
THE STORY OF A SON


THE THIRD DAY
The story of a son who never stopped being a son


From the heights of my inexperience, I can assure you that thirst seemed to be the most extraordinary and terrible thing I ever experienced. Extraordinary because I rediscovered the truth and was disappointed: I'm not enough to be enough. Terrible because it made me dependent: if I'm not enough for myself, I want to know who is.

I found no respite in running away, in cutting. So I went to find the courage to knock on another door. Yes, I went to find the courage, because you need it to go back and start again. I opened the door of the search and I missed holding my father's hand, running down paths and learning the place of fountains and the place of men, the place of waiting and only then the place of fruit.

Tears: the only thing we were capable of the day I returned. From the heights of my ignorance, I can say and attest that the thirst of a child is the most extraordinary and terrible thing in a parent's life. Extraordinary, because of the joy: the one they loved so much, and to whom they gave everything, has grown up and is searching for something they can't even say. Terrible, because of their impotence: it is the price they pay for their freedom and, for this reason, they experience the torment of seeing them leave, sometimes deceived, with no guarantee that they will return or be happy.

That same day, while we were eating, one of my brothers told me a story that he too had heard. The story of a father who had two sons. One of them, the youngest, left for a faraway land. He went wherever he wanted, did whatever he wanted, until he had nothing left. It was then that he remembered his father and wanted to at least be treated like one of his workers, who ate much better than he did. He set off and when he was still a long way off, his father saw him and ran to meet him, showering him with kisses. Then he had his feet shod, put a ring on his finger, gave him the best clothes and threw him a party.

It was my story. And I wanted to know more. So, while we were doing the dishes, I went to my brother and asked him to tell me what it was like with that son. But he shrugged his shoulders and, looking at a crucifix nearby, told me that the first person to tell that story didn't say any more.

Who is the storyteller? And why is he nailed to a cross like that? The first question was easy to answer: he told me his name was Jesus. The second was long: he told me it was a long story.

But I had the time. And I wanted to know. So we sat down on the green grass and I listened, attentive. Until he told me the story of a woman who went to the well. She went because she was thirsty, but she found a man who was even thirstier and had an unbridled desire to give her a drink.

And I felt again that it was my story. That the woman's words were mine and that her thirst was mine. That her questions were my questions. That his life was my life. That he was thirsty for me and that I was thirsty for him and for the water he had to give.

At that moment, I just wanted to leave the pitcher like her and follow him like those who had gone to buy food. I just didn't know how, when or where.

Text by Verónica Benedito, asm
Voice of Fausto Raínho Ferreira


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