The Prodigal at Brunch: A Story of Pain, Faith, and the Long Road Home

When an old friend opened up about his atheism, I was reminded of a timeless parable—and the quiet power of grace.

I hadn’t seen him in over forty years.

We were just kids back then—two classmates in Catholic elementary school, reciting prayers by rote and navigating childhood with the innocence only children have. He was bright, full of personality, and even back then, you could tell he was going places.

And he did.

He became a successful TV anchor, a familiar face in homes across the country. So when he reached out recently and asked to meet for brunch, I was curious, even excited. I expected a lighthearted catch-up. Laughter. Nostalgia. Maybe some stories from our school days.

But what I got was something far more powerful.

Between sips of coffee and small bites of our food, he opened up about his life—his rise to success, the bitterness of being fired from his job, the emotional toll of a painful divorce, and the childhood wounds that still haven’t fully healed. He spoke of a mother who struggled with addiction and of Catholic schools that were more about discipline than faith.

And then, quietly, he told me he no longer believed in God.

“I was never Catholic, my mother felt the Catholic school system was far superior to the public and that is why I was enrolled in the Catholic school system” he said, not defiantly, but with a kind of weary honesty. “It feels like I’ve been searching for something my whole life. And I still haven’t found it.”

His words struck me. Not just because of what he said—but because of what they reminded me of.

The story of the Prodigal Son.

No, my friend wasn’t reckless or wasteful. But like the younger son in Jesus’ parable, he had gone far in search of fulfillment. And now, sitting across from me, he seemed tired. Worn. Still searching.

But here’s the part of the story that gets me every time: the father doesn’t wait for his son to clean himself up before welcoming him home. He runs toward him—arms open, heart full.

That’s grace.

And maybe that’s what my friend was longing for—not just answers, but the possibility of knowing a Father that loves him and seeking his return home. Of being seen, known, and loved—even in doubt.

We didn’t solve everything over brunch. We didn’t try to. But we shared something sacred that morning: vulnerability, compassion, and the quiet hope that no one is ever too far gone.

Sometimes the road home starts not with a homily—but with a simple conversation, a shared meal, and a story waiting to be retold.

Please remember my friend in your prayers, and all those we know who have wandered from the faith, or perhaps do not accept our loving Father and His only begotten Son, Jesus Christ.

Peace and blessings.

Deacon Richard

You can also follow me on X and subscribe to my channel on Apple Podcast and YouTube