Short End of the Stick

“And he answering said to his father, Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment: and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends:
But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf.”
—Luke 15:29–30

Do you remember ever feeling gypped by God? I sure do.

It was the second time in my life that I gave birth to a child who didn’t survive, and I had to leave the hospital without them. I remember it as though it were yesterday. The doctor handed me my discharge papers and told me I was free to leave. It had been a truly traumatic delivery—one I barely survived—and I couldn’t believe they weren’t even offering me a wheelchair.

I honestly don’t know how I walked out of that hospital, but I remember exactly how I felt.

I felt cheated.

My youngest daughter had her own moment of heartbreak during that time. She was five, and the loss of her baby brother hit her deeply. She was standing beside my hospital bed when a newborn from another room cried out. At first, her face lit up with pure joy at the sound of a baby’s cry. Then her expression fell, and she said, “It’s not fair that they get their baby and we don’t get ours.”

Oh, how those words pierced me.

I answered her gently, “Honey, it’s not that we don’t want them to have their baby. It’s just that we wish we could have had ours, too.”

She nodded in understanding.

I wished I understood, too.

Sometimes it feels like God has given us the short end of the stick. Others get their baby. Others live seemingly untouched by tragedy. Meanwhile, we sit in sackcloth and ashes, wondering what we did to deserve such sorrow.

Other people seem to catch all the breaks. Maybe—like the prodigal son—they lived recklessly, escaped relatively unscathed, repented, and then we watch God bless them in ways we never imagined. It can all feel terribly unbalanced. Terribly unfair.

I believe this is one of the things Jesus was addressing in the parable of the prodigal son—but it’s an aspect that often gets glossed over. Most teachings focus on the wayward son and the father’s extravagant response to his return. The faithful son, on the other hand, is often quickly chided for feeling gypped, his emotions brushed aside as immature or petty, and the message ends with an unspoken directive to “grow up.”

But I don’t think that’s what Jesus was conveying at all.

I think many of us read chastisement into the father’s voice—but if you remove that assumption and simply listen to his words, you may hear something very different. Look at how the father responds:

“And he said unto him, Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.”
—Luke 15:31–32

When you strip away the imagined tone, what you hear is not rebuke—but reassurance.

“You are always with me.”
“I love being with you.”
“All that I have is yours.”

That is a tender thing to say to someone who is hurting.

Do you know you are always with me? Do you know there is nothing I have that I will withhold from you?

There is no condemnation here—only affirmation.

Then the father explains himself. I know I haven’t thrown a celebration for you like this, but it was right to celebrate your brother’s return. Before today, he was dead to us. Now he is alive. That matters.

I find this response incredibly beautiful.

The father never rebukes the son for his feelings. He reassures him of his love. Yes, he addresses the faulty conclusion—but he does so gently, with compassion, and in a way that invites the son to extend mercy to his brother.

It is a beautiful moment—and an important reminder to us: we are allowed to tell the Father how we feel.

It is okay to say you feel unloved.
It is okay to tell God how deeply you’ve been hurt by what you’ve walked through.

When you come to Him with your pain, He won’t chastise you for your emotions. He will meet you with love—love you can understand. That doesn’t mean He won’t correct mistaken conclusions; He will. But He will do it in a way that makes you want to run into His arms, not shrink back in shame.

There will never be condemnation covering His words.

So today, if you’re carrying feelings you don’t know what to do with, take them to the Father. Tell Him the truth of your heart. When you do, you give Him space to reassure you of His love—and to gently realign your thinking so you can lay those burdens down.

Yes, we will suffer loss in this life. That much is certain. But this, too, is certain: our Father loves us deeply. And in the end, He will never leave you holding the short end of the stick.