Unthinkable
Who would have thought it, as the rumours sped Across the town like flames on sun-scorched grass— “‘Give me my inheritance,’ he said!”— And folk stared at the old man as he passed And clucked about young people nowadays, And shook their heads when thinking of the shame Clinging to a once-decent family, And whispered, “He’s disgraced his father’s name”? Who would have thought it, on the day they saw The boy leave home without a backward glance At his bent father standing by the door, Left gazing at the figure in the distance? Who would have thought that they would see him run, Arms open to embrace that jerk, his son?
“I am beginning now to see how radically the character of my spiritual journey will change when I no longer think of God as hiding out and making it as difficult as possible for me to find him, but, instead, as the one who is looking for me while I am doing the hiding. When I look through God’s eyes at my lost self and discover God’s joy at my coming home, then my life may become less anguished and more trusting.” (Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son)