Here lies hidden the great call to conversion: to look not with the eyes of my own low self-esteem, but with the eyes of God’s love. ~Henri J.M. Nouwen
I squint red-rimmed eyes toward the distant hills, blue and inviting beyond dry stubble fields.
My stomach churns–the last hard crust was eaten yesterday, and the slop I carry is not for me.
Thoughts of home intrude, unwelcome. My sisters, giggling as the nourishing aromas of lentil stew and warm bread draw the others from the fields. My father will have his arm around his favored son, sharing a joke, glancing with pride at his brawny offspring, so like him–confident, competent, brave. I cringe at the memory of trophy-lined shelves with no mention of me.
They’re relieved I’ve gone, the black sheep, the bumbler, the fool–though my father would not be happy to know where I’ve washed ashore.
My face wets with dirty tears. Self-pity, shame.
My father’s intent, puzzled gaze dances in the blistering air. He never understood my dreams, my restlessness with life safe, contained, predictable.
I’m not the smart one, but I am sly, and straight lines confound me. I panted for freedom, to find myself, to shape my own future. A thirst for wild, unfettered glory burned.
His love, like soft chains keeping me from life.
I saw the pain when I told him, demanded of him my inheritance while he lived. I knew why he stumbled–I meant my words to punch hard. It seemed to be the only way.
Far From The Father
Now life punches me back, the glittery dreams turned to tawdry dust. The good life was a purchased one, and my purse is spent. Too late, I recognize the lie. It is not life I find when I leave the father’s embrace.
I look up, another farm hand sees my tears. His pursed lips and narrowed eyes mirror my self-verdict, “You almost killed him with unkindness. You are dead to your father. And dead you will stay.”
Come Home
An unexpected breeze caresses my parched skin. A scent lingers–sweet, wholesome, inviting. A soft whisper I barely hear: He waits for you. He longs for you. He will not rest until you are found. The child of his heart you will always be. Why wander the world for what can’t satisfy? Take one step toward the distant blue hills, and you will find yourself in his arms. Come home to the father, come home.
(Luke 15:11-32)
Do you hear the voice of the Father inviting you to come home?
Photo Credit
3 replies on “Love of the Father For the Prodigal In You”
Waiting, Longing, not Resting..? This is not the family I knew. Unimaginable! Found in fairy tales with castles and glass slippers. Well loved? Well cared for? Cared about? Fed? Dressed? Safe? Never! Seriously! Maybe Christmas?
Bread and milk in the house at the same time was a big deal, rare to never.
Neglect, Abandonment, and Rejection.. That was that was the place I existed.
Unsafe, Terrorized, Tormented. Now that is where I spent my early years. BUT!
GOD Sees..Heals..Guides..Restores! He Saves..Delivers..Redeems..Forgives!
Thank God! He is the good father who lets us wrestle Him. GOD WINS! Always! Our Heavenly Father! Now that is Embraceable..Eternal..Forever TRUE LOVE!
You know this story from the inside, Ginny. How did you know my Sunday post will be entitled just that–God Wins? Thank for sharing.
Is it any wonder that this profound story has received more attention than almost any other in the canon? And, thank you, Henri Nouwen for taking it on as a meditation.