I always thought of the story of the prodigal son as referring to a specific "wandering away" period in a person's life they'd rather forget - like those two years in my mid-twenties when I partied harder than Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan combined.
But, I'm starting to think that that story describes my life more often than I think. God often equips me and leads me in a direction and I'll see where he wants me to go and say, "Okay God, got it." And then I take off like an Olympian running their best mile. I leave God in the dust at the starting line, forgetting that these are the Special Olympics and I'm missing a leg and I depend on my Father to carry me in this race.
The fatigue of hopping along trying to keep my balance on one leg forces me to crash to the ground, my face hitting the track, leaving it bruised and bleeding. I then realize my error...I left my Father. I need Him.
Feeling defeated, I raise my head to look back, hoping my disrespect didn't cause him to leave, that He'll help me try again. He doesn't hesitate; he begins running toward me, faster and faster until he reaches my side, bends down, lifts up my crumpled body and carries me to the finish line.
Thank you God for running to me all the times I try to race ahead of you, leaving you in my dust. Thank you. Thank you.
3 hours ago