I am sitting at Wendy’s, taking a late lunch, and I think my eyes are FINALLY finished being red from holding back tears.
I listened to Focus on the Family today as I drove over here, and ended up sitting in the parking lot, franticly searching for fast food restaurant napkins in my glove compartment by the time the speaker got about ½ way through his talk. I can’t remember the name of the man who was talking. I know he had a British accent… helpful, I know.
BUT, the important thing was what he had to say. He was talking about the prodigal, and about how we can draw the prodigal back to the church. He had several points, most of which are fuzzy in my memory now, but one of them was love… he said when God’s churches are filled with love, the prodigals will come home.
As an illustration he told a story from Philip Yancy about a prodigal daughter. In this story a young woman leaves home after the kind of fight you might expect… some piercing or tattoo, or poor choice of dress. As the story progresses, she becomes a kept woman, and for a while it is intoxicating. Then the drugs get to her. She gets sick, strung out, and she is tossed out on the street. After a while of this, she starts to remember the comforts of home, apple blossoms, a happy brown dog, and her family.
She leaves a message on her parents’ machine (I’m tearing up again, folks… I may never stop crying about this one!) that says “I want to come home.” She says “I’m taking the bus and I’ll arrive at 2:00. If no one is there to greet me, I’ll understand, and I’ll get back on and you won’t hear from me again.”
SO, the day arrives, and she is awoken by the bus driver saying the name of her town, and that they would only be there for 15 minutes (15 minutes to decide the rest of her life)! She cleans up as best she can, and walks off the bus hoping to see someone to meet her, but she can’t possibly be prepared for what awaits! 30-40 people, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends… people are crowding together in the small bus station clamoring to welcome her home!
Then her Dad runs up and folds her in his arms. When he finally steps back, she says “Daddy, I’m so sorry!” He responds (hear this!) “We don’t have TIME For that right now. We’re going to be late for the party!!!” Here it is, again, tears in Wendy’s. Have I no shame (Yes, I have shame, just not self-control)?
I’m not done crying yet… The speaker goes on to talk about the parents, about parents who have persevered, always hoping and praying for their children through periods of prodigality (I’m sure that’s not a word, but it should be). Building on that, he entreats us to pray for our children. Feeling convicted that I don’t do that enough, I walked into Wendy’s (after doing as much damage control as I could with my swollen eyes), got my food and sat down with my Bible and bowed my head.
As I prayed, I realized, again, how much I love my little girl. It takes me by surprise again and again. She has so much power over me. When she dances to the music, or gives me her toothy giggle for some antic I’ve performed, I have a visceral reaction. I can actually feel the endorphins releasing in my body. As I’m marveling about this, and praying that my God would give my little girl all the things she needs to live a truly blessed life, I am feeling grateful that my Lord loves her more than even I do, amazing! And then it hits me… He loves ME that way. Insert pregnant pause… This would be an appropriate time for someone from the V8 commercial to hit me on the head… except that I am so choked up I can’t even find that funny.
I think about how I would feel if Charis suddenly stopped giving me those smiles, the giggles, if I came home one day and instead of squealing with delight, she ignored me and turned the other way. It would hurt. I have come to look forward to the moment I get home every day as the highlight of my day! Nothing is quite as satisfying as feeling her bury her head in my chest and her little bottom bouncing as she kicks her legs in pure joy while I squeeze her. I think it would almost be like getting the wind knocked out of me to lose those things…
But I do that to God. I fail on a regular basis to meet with my Savior. I fail to show my love for Him. I choose a clean house or a full refrigerator over the opportunity to cause joy to the one who created me, who loves me so much more than I love my little girl that I can’t even begin to comprehend it. Maybe that’s been my problem… maybe I haven’t been able to internalize that because I couldn’t relate. It’s hard to imagine the love a parent has for a child until you’ve become one.
I’m so sorry, Lord. I listened to this talk thinking about how I needed to learn to be more loving so that Your prodigal children could feel compelled to come home, and instead I found myself in the role of the prodigal. I’m coming home, Lord. Today, I am home, right now, I am so glad to be Your little girl, right where You’ve put me, loved by an amazing God. Holy Spirit, keep this fresh. Let me never again take for granted that I am loved. Amen.
I listened to Focus on the Family today as I drove over here, and ended up sitting in the parking lot, franticly searching for fast food restaurant napkins in my glove compartment by the time the speaker got about ½ way through his talk. I can’t remember the name of the man who was talking. I know he had a British accent… helpful, I know.
BUT, the important thing was what he had to say. He was talking about the prodigal, and about how we can draw the prodigal back to the church. He had several points, most of which are fuzzy in my memory now, but one of them was love… he said when God’s churches are filled with love, the prodigals will come home.
As an illustration he told a story from Philip Yancy about a prodigal daughter. In this story a young woman leaves home after the kind of fight you might expect… some piercing or tattoo, or poor choice of dress. As the story progresses, she becomes a kept woman, and for a while it is intoxicating. Then the drugs get to her. She gets sick, strung out, and she is tossed out on the street. After a while of this, she starts to remember the comforts of home, apple blossoms, a happy brown dog, and her family.
She leaves a message on her parents’ machine (I’m tearing up again, folks… I may never stop crying about this one!) that says “I want to come home.” She says “I’m taking the bus and I’ll arrive at 2:00. If no one is there to greet me, I’ll understand, and I’ll get back on and you won’t hear from me again.”
SO, the day arrives, and she is awoken by the bus driver saying the name of her town, and that they would only be there for 15 minutes (15 minutes to decide the rest of her life)! She cleans up as best she can, and walks off the bus hoping to see someone to meet her, but she can’t possibly be prepared for what awaits! 30-40 people, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends… people are crowding together in the small bus station clamoring to welcome her home!
Then her Dad runs up and folds her in his arms. When he finally steps back, she says “Daddy, I’m so sorry!” He responds (hear this!) “We don’t have TIME For that right now. We’re going to be late for the party!!!” Here it is, again, tears in Wendy’s. Have I no shame (Yes, I have shame, just not self-control)?
I’m not done crying yet… The speaker goes on to talk about the parents, about parents who have persevered, always hoping and praying for their children through periods of prodigality (I’m sure that’s not a word, but it should be). Building on that, he entreats us to pray for our children. Feeling convicted that I don’t do that enough, I walked into Wendy’s (after doing as much damage control as I could with my swollen eyes), got my food and sat down with my Bible and bowed my head.
As I prayed, I realized, again, how much I love my little girl. It takes me by surprise again and again. She has so much power over me. When she dances to the music, or gives me her toothy giggle for some antic I’ve performed, I have a visceral reaction. I can actually feel the endorphins releasing in my body. As I’m marveling about this, and praying that my God would give my little girl all the things she needs to live a truly blessed life, I am feeling grateful that my Lord loves her more than even I do, amazing! And then it hits me… He loves ME that way. Insert pregnant pause… This would be an appropriate time for someone from the V8 commercial to hit me on the head… except that I am so choked up I can’t even find that funny.
I think about how I would feel if Charis suddenly stopped giving me those smiles, the giggles, if I came home one day and instead of squealing with delight, she ignored me and turned the other way. It would hurt. I have come to look forward to the moment I get home every day as the highlight of my day! Nothing is quite as satisfying as feeling her bury her head in my chest and her little bottom bouncing as she kicks her legs in pure joy while I squeeze her. I think it would almost be like getting the wind knocked out of me to lose those things…
But I do that to God. I fail on a regular basis to meet with my Savior. I fail to show my love for Him. I choose a clean house or a full refrigerator over the opportunity to cause joy to the one who created me, who loves me so much more than I love my little girl that I can’t even begin to comprehend it. Maybe that’s been my problem… maybe I haven’t been able to internalize that because I couldn’t relate. It’s hard to imagine the love a parent has for a child until you’ve become one.
I’m so sorry, Lord. I listened to this talk thinking about how I needed to learn to be more loving so that Your prodigal children could feel compelled to come home, and instead I found myself in the role of the prodigal. I’m coming home, Lord. Today, I am home, right now, I am so glad to be Your little girl, right where You’ve put me, loved by an amazing God. Holy Spirit, keep this fresh. Let me never again take for granted that I am loved. Amen.
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