Finally Home

Christopher Yuan

“Sign here and date here,” the officer directed, pointing to two blank lines on the page in front of me. I had been looking forward to this day for so long that I almost couldn’t believe it was here. Even though this wasn’t my official release date, it was the day I was transferred by furlough release to a halfway house in Chicago. This time my parents were picking me up to take me to the halfway house—but not before swinging by home. It had been so long since I’d been home, and even longer yet since I considered home to be…home.

I touched the tip of the pen to the paper, then stopped at the first line. Name. To everyone but my family, I had always been just Chris. But my birth name was Christopher—“Christ-bearer.”

Here I stood on the cusp of a new life. Perhaps it was time for a new name. Or actually, perhaps it was time I reclaimed my old name. My time in prison was basically done. That evening I’d be in a new place—halfway to freedom. I was about to sign on the dotted line.

Christopher. It didn’t quite feel natural. Christopher. Every time I heard the name, it felt a little odd. But maybe that peculiar feeling I got could be a reminder that I wasn’t who I used to be. I was no longer Chris. I would be Christopher. Christ-bearer.

I tossed my canvas sea bag with my personal belongings into the white van, then climbed in the back. The guard sitting in the driver’s seat turned around. “Ready?” he asked. “Okay, let’s go.”
The van cranked up to a steady rumble, and we headed out. We passed the chapel, the steel building where people came to visit inmates, the Out of Bounds sign, the supermax prison, the wardens’ houses, and finally up to the guards’ gatehouse. I could see my parents’ Honda stopped beside the front gate. Dad and Mom were standing there waiting for me. I smiled. This was it. This was the end of my time in prison—and the beginning of a brand-new life.

When the van shuddered to a stop, I hopped out and walked straight to my parents. With tears and laughter they embraced me. My mother wrapped me in a jacket to cover the prison-issue khaki shirt. As she did, I thought of the father of the prodigal son, who ran to meet his son when he finally returned from that far country: “Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him.” I pulled the coat tight around me, appreciating the warmth and love it represented.

The vast cornfields of Illinois fell away on either side of the interstate highway as we drove toward home. I had always taken the wide spaces of Illinois for granted, but now—seen through clear glass with no bars or mesh—they looked more beautiful than ever.

We spoke very little during the drive. I couldn’t believe that this time was over. No more handcuffs. No more chains. No more guards. No more stand-up counts. I mostly soaked in the freedom of this new start.

I could hardly put into words the gratitude I felt for God’s work in my life—and for my parents, who had every reason to give up on me. But they never did.

I looked at my mother. She was leaning against the headrest, her eyes closed and a smile of contentment lit up her face. It hit me then, the significance of what they had done for me. They must have been worried day and night. They had probably dealt with criticism and condescension from people in their community. “Oh yes, they’re the ones with the son in prison.”

And the countless hours in prayer my parents had spent on my behalf. I had seen my mother’s knees, brown and calloused from kneeling in her prayer closet. And the pages of my father’s Bible worn from thumbing through God’s promises. They’d done this for me, their son who stormed out almost eight years ago, yelling that he had a real family—his gay friends. But my real family, as it turned out, was my real family. How would I ever repay them?

I reached forward and squeezed my mom’s shoulder. She turned and smiled.

“Thank you,” I said, looking at both of them. “Thank you so much.”

It took us almost six hours to drive to our home in the Chicago suburbs. As we drove slowly past the front of the house, I looked at the large pine tree in the yard. There was a huge yellow ribbon tied around it.

“Tie a yellow ribbon ’round the old oak tree…” It had been a long time since I’d thought of that oldie. It was such a great, sentimental story about an inmate returning home. He’d asked his love to tie a ribbon around the tree in their yard if she’d still have him. And if there was no ribbon on the tree, he’d told the bus driver not to stop but to keep driving. He was afraid to open his eyes as they approached his street. Then he heard the passengers in the bus cheering because there wasn’t just one ribbon but a hundred yellow ribbons around the oak tree.

As I watched the ends of the yellow ribbon moving in the breeze, it occurred to me how much my life was like that song. “It’s been three long years. Do you still want me?” Three years ago my apartment in Atlanta was raided, and I was hauled off to jail. I was unworthy of my parents’ love, but they both still wanted me and had waited for me after all this time. My eyes misted and my heart flooded with the understanding of grace and forgiveness that had been given to me. I squeezed my mother’s hand.

As we approached the front door, I could hear the faint sound of singing. I looked to my parents with a bit of confusion. They just smiled—with a twinkle in their eyes—and pushed open the door. In the front hallway sat a CD player, which had been playing “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” on repeat since they’d left home yesterday morning to pick me up. They wanted it to be the first thing I heard when I came home. I stepped into the entrance and looked around the front foyer, and I saw more than a hundred yellow ribbons tacked here and there on all the walls. I walked closer and saw each one had a signature and some words of encouragement.

“Each ribbon was signed by someone who has been praying for you all these years,” my mother explained. “And they each wanted to personally welcome you home.”

It was almost more than I could bear. That much love, that much perseverance, and that much grace extended by so many people, many of whom I had never met. They didn’t love me simply because of who I was; they loved me because they loved Jesus. And they, like my parents, were willing to give me a second chance.

My mother embraced me, her eyes shining. “Christopher, welcome home.”

“Christopher,” I said, my voice choked by tears. “Christ-bearer,” I whispered.

“Yes, Christopher.” In that moment I realized that her journey had been just as long and painful as mine.

“I’m home, Mom. I’m home.” And I knew what I said was true in every way. After being lost so long in a far country…I was finally home.

Excerpted from Out Of A Far Country by Christopher Yuan & Angela Yuan by permission of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.