[Editors’ note: This is part of America’s 2019 family issue. Click here to find our other stories on faith and today’s families.]

“Then let us celebrate with a feast, because this son of mine was dead and has come to life again; he was lost, and has been found” (Lk 15:23–24).

Like many of Jesus’ parables, the parable of the prodigal son in the Gospel of Luke features an all-male cast. There is the father, loving and merciful, the older son, judgmental and testy, and the younger son, thoughtless and hedonistic. I have been encouraged by many homilists over the years to cast myself in the role appropriate to my own situation and my own behavior, with the goal of gaining insight into the practice of my faith.

In my family right now, however, the pertinent roles are female. My husband is a loving father to our daughters, but recent family matters concern the women.

Earlier this year, I went to Mass with my sister, and prompted by the presider’s homily to cast ourselves in the Gospel drama, we talked in the car afterward.

“I’m afraid I’m the older son,” my sister said, which is how I have always characterized myself. My lifelong struggle with being overly judgmental has yet to be won. But then my sister said, “I’m the kid who always did the right thing, and I resented it when the kids doing the bad stuff didn’t get in trouble!” When she was younger, she would have enjoyed seeing those misbehaving kids pay.

I understand how relieved and joyful that father was to see his returning son “still a long way off” because I have been there.

My heart lurched as I suddenly realized that, thanks to some parental experience with kids doing the bad stuff, I can completely identify with the prodigal son’s father.

I understand how relieved and joyful that father was to see his returning son “still a long way off” because I have been there. There was a dark time in the life of one of my daughters when I dreaded answering a call from an unknown number on my phone. Dread is too mild a word, actually, because I was deeply afraid that some unwelcome call was going to be the notification that my daughter was dead.

A practicing alcoholic, she was out there, at the world’s mercy, her behavior rash and risky, and there was nothing I could do about it. When the call finally came, it was less-bad news: She was not dead but in jail. Among other charges, she had assaulted a police officer. I suspect she survived that encounter with the law because she was a white girl rather than a person of color, a thought that fills me with both gratitude and shame.

I tell this story with my daughter’s permission because she is now sober. She was lost and now, one day at a time, has been found. Like the father in the story, I have surely celebrated her return from the dead. I have wanted to put a ring on her finger and sandals on her feet. I see with the father’s eyes. He was merciful and compassionate, but mostly he was overcome with the relief of not having to bury a beloved child. I get this in my bones.

Do not ever let anyone say that sobriety is easy on a family: The return of a prodigal can spark consuming fires.

But my joy is tempered by the way this hopeful new chapter in my daughter’s life has given rise to some resentment among her sisters. Their reaction to her recovery has caught me off-guard, although it makes sense: They, like my sister, have been the kids doing the right thing, comparatively speaking. It is as though they were used to her being the one who messed up all the time, who caused their parents all the grief, and now they do not quite know what to make of her.

And as much as she presents this new, improved, self-aware person to them, as much as she wants them to trust her sobriety and integrity and honesty, they do not—not yet, anyway. Which she, in turn, does not understand. Why are they so judgmental? Why do they brush her aside so dismissively? Why are they holding onto their expectation of a return to her past prodigal ways?

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The brothers in the Gospel story do not seem to have been close. My daughters have been. They have different personalities, but they have always supported each other, a steadfast squad of blood sisters. Now there is turmoil among them, as this changing family dynamic rocks everybody’s place in it. Do not ever let anyone say that sobriety is easy on a family: The return of a prodigal can spark consuming fires.

Consider for a moment Steps Eight and Nine of the Alcoholics Anonymous program. The recovering alcoholic is to make a list of the people she has harmed and then make “direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.” Making these amends may involve offering an apology or paying back money or repairing some damage or somehow restoring a relationship. The one making amends does so in the hope of regaining someone’s trust.

In the Gospel story, the loving father is the one who tries to bridge the empathy gap between the siblings. That is now my role to attempt.

Imagine that you are in recovery and have made the incredibly difficult and humbling list of people you have hurt and have bravely offered an apology to a person who matters to you. But now imagine that the person you care about does not cooperate with your intentions by not hearing you out or by not accepting your offered amends or by not forgiving or by not even agreeing to see you. It is easy to imagine the older brother in the story rejecting the prodigal’s amends as inadequate or insincere or showboating. You can then imagine the younger brother’s surprise or hurt feelings or perhaps resentment at the rejection. In short, you can imagine the pain and turmoil that may accompany the 12 steps. Sobriety is a good thing, but in reality it can be more than a family can handle.

In the Gospel story, the loving father is the one who tries to bridge the empathy gap between the siblings. That is now my role to attempt. The problem is that I do not know if it works. Jesus’ story ends before we learn if the father’s efforts at reconciliation have been successful. I have lingering questions: Does the younger brother seek to make amends? Does the older brother set aside his bitterness and join the feast celebrating his brother’s return? Or does he keep himself apart, stuck in all-consuming judgment and antipathy?

I am not some wise person, adept at mending the rifts among my children. One of my sisters no longer speaks to me, so I am obviously not an expert in sorting out the problems sisters may have with each other. I am myself a broken link in a broken chain. I mourn the loss of a sisterly love that I once considered unbreakable. I know that blood is not always thick enough to prevail. My heart hurts at the divisions among my daughters, and I pray to find the words and the wisdom to be the bridge or at least the water they can each safely fall into as they try to cross.

The next time a homilist suggests that I cast myself in the Gospel reading, I will know that I am no longer the older sibling in the story. God help me, I am the parent.

[Editors’ note: This is part of America’s 2019 family issue. Click here to find our other stories on faith and today’s families.]

This article appears in September 2 2019.

Valerie Schultz is a freelance writer, a columnist for The Bakersfield Californian and the author of Till the Moon Be No More: The Grit and Grace of Growing Older. She lives on the Oregon Coast.