The gospel story of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32) has always provoked a strong feeling of déjà vu. With just a little tweaking it might well be the story of my youth growing up as a member of a central Jersey Italian Catholic extended family…except I spent celebrations coveting not fattened calves, but bakery cake frosting roses.

My mother was one of five tight-knit sisters who prized family above everything else. Each birthday, holiday and sacramental milestone, the D’Angelo women convened at one of their houses, children and husbands in tow, to share a celebratory meal. The agenda for each family member was clear: the men took refuge in the living room to watch the televised sport du jour, we cousins played in the yard or a child’s bedroom, and the sisters would gather in the kitchen to prepare dinner and talk.

Sounds idyllic, hmm? Are you picturing Norman Rockwell-esque scenes of smiling faces?  Well, then, it’s apparent you have never been at a gathering like those of our particular Sicilian-American family.

You see, being a D’Angelo sister meant it was resident in your genetic code to consider conversation a near-contact sport. One sister did not wait until another was finished speaking to add her verbal contribution to the topic; she merely interjected her thought near the tail end of another sister’s sentence, and at a slightly higher decibel in order to be heard. (Pausing to breathe during a conversation was a sign of weakness and caused you to miss your millisecond-long opening to speak; as I grew older I developed the family’s hidden set of gills to allow simultaneous respiration and speech.)

The five sisters’ volume would hit such a crescendo one of their husbands would bellow from the living room, “We can’t hear the TELEVISION IN HERE!” Conversation would come to a screeching halt for a moment or two, only to begin once again at a lower level which gradually escalated. This roller-coaster cycle of screaming and silence would continue until dinner was ready. No matter the topic of the sisters’ original conversation, long-nurtured childish resentments and unforgiven slights would bubble up like the contents of the spaghetti pot on the stove. All too often, by the time dinner was served, one sister was not on speaking terms with one or more of her siblings.

We 10 cousins, outside the kitchen’s verbal battlefield, played together harmoniously and awaited the big meal. Though our presence at the kids’ table kept us mostly out of the fray, the adults’ dinner conversation often was fraught with tension and animosity. We soon discovered keeping track of which of our mothers were currently speaking to which other cousin’s mother could determine when we might meet again. Overheard portions of the kitchen conversation during trips to get a glass of water could yield clues (we cousins needed to be diligent, for there were no closed-caption transcripts nor YouTube video records in those days), giving the more math-savvy older cousins enough background information to figure the equation which calculated the number of permutations of five sisters either talking or not talking to one, two, any or all of the others (notated as “5!”; there are 120 different combinations for those of you who stared out the window during Algebra class).

Even if the dinner preparations and execution had been cordial and the optimal 120th permutation was in effect (that is, all five D’Angelo sisters were still speaking), dissention would most certainly arise during the last course of the day: the bakery sheet cake emblazoned with a description of each party’s theme.

No matter the entrée or event, we were assured of a rectangular double-layered confection proclaiming “Happy Birthday” or “Congratulations on your First Communion,” adorned with a small spray of sugary frosting roses in one corner. Plates would be cleared, forks would be saved and the negotiations would begin.

Which woman would be allotted a slice with a rose was a decision rivaling the one hammered out at Versailles to end World War I or a videotape review of a runner sliding into home plate during a matchup between the Yankees and the Red Sox. The five D’Angelo sisters would consult their mental tally sheet and recall which sister had partaken of a rose-topped slice at the last gathering, then demand their rightful bit of frosted retribution. Husbands and children stayed safely out of range, expecting only to partake of the cake shrapnel which remained. (A child’s highest aspiration was for a slice bearing some of the gel used to inscribe the lettering; my scoring the ‘H-A-P’ at one cousin’s birthday remained my finest hour.)

These otherwise loving, generous women, who attended Mass weekly and insisted their children exhibit compassion towards others, could not apply this lesson to family and baked confections. Long silences between family milestones would ensue, yet each time the five sisters would join together for the next event and repeat the cycle.

The story of the Prodigal Son, replete with sibling rivalry and an unforgiving heart, was the story of the extended family of my childhood. I saw adults harbor grudges like boats in a storm, and genuine forgiveness, like that of the father towards the son who had sinned against him, was all too rare.

But it won’t have to be the story of my adult life; as I look back on this near-half-century existence, I have seen so many times when God has forgiven my shortcomings or outright sin. I’ve learned, to my joy, that God doesn’t keep a tally sheet or remember old arguments. He doesn’t turn away, or deny you his love. He simply extends his hand and waits for you to come back to him with a loving heart.

Nowadays I’m grateful when the story of the Prodigal Son is proclaimed as the Gospel, and even read it on my own when I need a reminder. Showing repentance like the wayward son, offering forgiveness like his grateful father and letting go of resentment like the once-jealous brother can serve as a great three-pronged goal. With God’s help, I’ll strive to enjoy a symbolic fattened calf more often…..and buy bakery cakes with plenty of frosting roses on top to share.