Authors: Richard Paul Evans
Lost December (2 page)
Lost December
A certain man had two sons:
And the younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his living.
And not many days after the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living.
And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began to be in want.
And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine.
And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat: and no man gave unto him.
And when he came to himself, he said, How many hired servants of my father’s have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger!
I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee,
And am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants.
And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet
a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.
And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.
But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet:
And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry: For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.
Luke 15:11-24
PROLOGUE
A ninety-year-old man went to confession. “Father,” he said, “I left my wife and ran off with a thirty-year-old woman.”
The priest said, “That’s terrible, but I don’t recognize your voice. Are you a member of this parish?”
The old man replied, “No. I’m not Catholic.”
“Then why are you telling me this?” The priest asked
.
“I’m ninety years old,” the old man replied, “I’m telling everyone.”
There are those who share their stories of waywardness with false shame and fond recollection—a misplaced pride in past misdeeds. I am not that fool. I share my story for your benefit, not mine. On my part, I feel nothing but shame and gratitude. Shame for the people I hurt and gratitude that they didn’t desert me when I most deserved it. It has been said that sometimes the greatest hope in our lives is just a second chance to do what we should have done right in the first place. This is the story of my second chance.
One
Some mistakenly believe that “prodigal” means lost or wayward.
It doesn’t. It means “wastefully extravagant.”
No matter, both definitions are true of me
.
Luke Crisp’s Diary
My seventh-grade English teacher, Mr. Adams, used to say, “No matter how thin the pancake, there are still two sides.”
Two sides to every story
. People mistake that little chestnut for wisdom—as if all real evil in this world can be explained away if we’ll but listen to the other side of the story. Tell that to your local serial killer. I believe that adage amounts to nothing more than moral laziness—a motto for people who carry moral compasses without needles. Make no mistake,
all
evil has its side of the story.
I’m telling you this because in presenting
my side
of the story, I do not want you to confuse it for justification. No matter what excuses I told myself at the time, my choices were wrong. I was wrong. I’ll warn you in advance—as you read my story, you won’t like me. I understand. Neither did I. You have likely heard the story of the prodigal son. That’s my story too. I’m here to tell my side of the story.
Two
Only those who never step, never stumble
.
Luke Crisp’s Diary
If the seeds of my fall were planted in my youth, they didn’t begin to bloom until my years at Wharton business school at the University of Pennsylvania, carefully cultivated by a gardener you’ll learn about later.
Before then, I lived where I was born, in Scottsdale, Arizona, an upscale suburb of Phoenix. My childhood was a little unusual. My mother died of breast cancer when I was seven, and my father threw himself into his work to deal with his grief. My father, Carl Crisp, was an innovative and brilliant man—a corporate visionary. Through his industry he built an international company. Unless you live in an Appalachian cave or a shanty in an Everglades swamp, you’ve probably heard of it: Crisp’s Copy Centers. There are currently more than two thousand locations throughout the U.S. and Canada, the number of stores rising monthly.
