Nobody is just one thing.

The sentence above proved to be an important lesson in my life, courtesy of a dear friend long since gone. 

She’d catch me off guard in the middle of a rant (for want of a better word.) I might be speaking of a family member or friend—someone I knew pretty well. I was frustrated that they were not showing their “true” colors. Maybe I had them pegged as hard-hearted, and they just did a loving thing. Or maybe I thought they were tough, but then saw them well up with tears upon seeing a fragile sparrow deceased on the ground.

I could go on, but I hope I have made the point of my friend Martha Petrey. “MT (what she called me), nobody is just one thing. You miss out on lots of wonderful surprises by confining them to a single definition.”

I know that is true, but I also know that “categorizing” brings some control to an otherwise uncontrollable world. Hence, it makes me feel safe. It’s hard to give up those two assurances.

This week I encountered her wisdom once again.

My brother Jim texted me a long poem written by our paternal grandfather. I once had possession of it, and how it ended up in his home in Milwaukee is a mystery to us both.

Titled “Prodigal Girl,” the poem takes Luke 15:11-32 as its inspiration, only it flips the script. Ask yourself this, Ben Trainor seems to pose, would the story even appeal to Luke’s readers if the wayward offspring were a girl?

Jim and I never knew GrandpaTrainor since he died before we were born. All we had to go on were other people’s memories or opinions. 

Most of them never knew Martha Petrey, or someone like her who understands that nobody is just one thing.

By most accounts that we ever heard, Ben was characterized as a stern, punitive, by-the-book man, and a staunch Roman Catholic who believed no one other than RCs would cross the threshold of heaven.

He was a railroad engineer, which means he was gone from home a lot, so we think Grandma probably filled in many blanks for her children and their children 

Our mother, who somehow “got him” better than his own kids did, told us there was much more depth to the man than was ever revealed to his children. 

She also shared that he loved to write, and was frequently published in Railroad Magazine. 

Perhaps “Prodigal Girl” graced its pages.

Commentary by Mary Trainer about Prodigal Girl

Narrative reading of Prodigal Girl Poem

Prodigal Girl

By Benjamin Trainor (1923)

Historical Context

Written in 1923, ‘Prodigal Girl’ reflects a period in American society when moral expectations for women were rigid and public judgment could be swift and unforgiving. The 1920s were a time of social change—women had recently gained the right to vote, and cultural norms were shifting—yet traditional standards of virtue remained deeply entrenched. In this poem, Benjamin Trainor challenges the double standard that celebrated the return of the ‘prodigal son’ while condemning the ‘prodigal girl.’ His words offer a compassionate critique of societal hypocrisy and advocate for mercy, dignity, and fairness.

Prodigal Girl

I’ve read of the lives of the martyrs —

The story of Peter and Paul;

The story of Joseph and Mary —

I respect and honor them all.

I’ve read of St. Thomas and Stephen;

Honest and faithful men.

I’ve read the sweet story of Jesus

and expect to read it again.

I’ve read of the Good Samaritan,

Of Charity’s lesson begun,

And my heart goes out with great pity

To the wayward prodigal son.

They’re always glad to welcome him back;

So quick to forget and forgive;

It makes no difference what he’s done

If he’ll only come back to live.

They have always talked of the prodigal boy

Since ever the world begun;

The joy, the glory, forgiveness, of the

Returning wayward son.

But poets, it seems, have forgotten to write

Of the saddest thing in the world:

They’re not so eager to welcome back

The poor little prodigal girl.

Just why has she turned out crooked?

She happened to meet the right one,

Who had the slick tongue of a Judas,

And that was your prodigal son.

And though he is upheld and forgiven,

It’s common all over the world

That they scornfully point out for gossip

The poor little prodigal girl.

There is nothing quite so pathetic

As the lives of the maidens who fall;

And if you’ll go down to the bottom

A man is the cause of it all.

But he is led back in society,

Nursed with the tenderest care,

Held up to the world as a hero,

Mentioned in fervent prayer,

While she is cast out from her loved ones,

Out in the cold cruel world;

And they always point out and condemn her:

The poor little prodigal girl.

It’s a story that’s often been written

But I’ll repeat it again,

That “the lowest of fallen women

Is better than most of the men”.