Lent

Dear Father God:

I had an emotional meltdown the other night. A periodic release of pent-up tears is cathartic for the mother of a prodigal. As I grieved, I found myself wondering, “How can You stand it? Having one or two wayward children is enough to burst a heart at the seams. Surely only an omnipotent Being could possibly bear to see His creatures—not just one or two, but countless millions—ruining themselves wantonly, and not destroy them in anger, walk away in disgust or wallow in despair.

You are the Father in the story, watching for all the prodigals, running to meet them, throwing Your arms wide. And my son isn’t the only prodigal in this particular house. I’m looking at one in the bathroom mirror right now, blotchy skin and puffy eyes and all.

To be prodigal is to be “wastefully extravagant.” When I think of the time, energy and other resources I’ve frittered away, when I could have been eagerly following you…I see husks in a trough, worthless. So this year I’m choosing to see Lent as a choice to embrace the road home, to turn away from the trough and plant my feet on the path again. I’ve been on this road, more or less, for over twenty years. But at times I’ve been too addicted to the safety of my own back yard to make much progress. Other times, well…You know my heart: You’ve seen how far the affections can wander, how easily the idols elbow in, as soon as good habits start to slide. You’ve heard the lame excuses which seemed like such good rationales—at the time—for not doing the right thing, the hard thing, the inconvenient thing.

So I’m heading toward home again. Traveling a familiar road has a charm all its own. Each landmark, each milestone brings you closer to the destination. But the prodigal’s road isn’t exactly “over the river and through the woods”, is it? And while the prodigal literally traveled to a far country, and had to retrace his steps, I don’t think each believer’s failing lands them back at “Start” until they roll double-sixes. It’s more like I stepped off the path following some distraction in the woods, which seemed lovely and enticing, but landed me in the swamp. And Jesus is walking me back to the level highway now, more or less where I got off.

I’m guessing that every path, every journey, is ever so slightly different from every other. But our destination is the same. It would be nice to share the road, tell our stories as we anticipate the hearthlight shining through the windows just over the next hill. Even if each road does come from a different place, till they all converge on one Father’s eager smiling face, I think He’s arranged it so we can be companions anyway. We can hobble home together, watching for the wide-spread arms of God.