The Prodigal's Road: Returning to the Lord

The father embracing his prodigal son - Image by iStock

The Prodigal’s Road: Returning to the Lord

The day I finally came home smelling like the pigs

The Night I Smelled Like Pigs

I was forty years old, a pastor, and sitting in my car in an empty church parking lot at 2 a.m., crying so hard I couldn’t see the dashboard.

I had wandered.

Not into bars or hotels—just into pride, busyness, and silence toward God.

But the stink was the same.

I remember whispering through tears,

“Father, I’m not even worthy to be called Your servant anymore.”

And in that moment I felt the dust on the road,

the shame in my throat,

the terror that the door might be locked.

Then I heard footsteps.

Running.

The Father Who Sprints

Jesus didn’t tell the story of a father who waited on the porch with folded arms.

He told of a father who hiked up his robe,

forgot his dignity,

and ran like a crazy man down the road the second he saw his boy-shaped dust on the horizon.

That’s your Father.

That’s my Father.

The Lie Shame Tells (and the Truth That Shuts It Up)

Shame says:

“You’ve gone too far.”

"You’ve hurt Him too much.”

“You’ll never feel at home again.”

God says:

“I will give them a heart to know Me…

they will return to Me with all their heart.” (Jeremiah 24:7)

He doesn’t say “if they’re good enough.”

He says “they will return.”

Because He’s already on His way to get you.

How to Take the First Step When Your Legs Feel Like Lead

You don’t need a perfect prayer.

You need one honest word:

“Help.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m home.”

Say it in the truck.

Say it in the kitchen at midnight.

Say it face-down on the carpet.

He’s already running before the syllable is finished.

The Table Is Already Set

The father didn’t make the son earn the robe, the ring, the sandals, the feast.

He threw the party while the stink was still on him.

That’s how ridiculous God’s love is.

You don’t clean up to come home.

You come home and He cleans you.

Prayer for Every Prodigal Reading This

Father,

I’m the one covered in pig slop and shame.

I’m scared to look up.

But I’m turning toward home.

Run to me.

Tackle me.

Throw the robe around these dirty shoulders.

Kill the fatted calf.

I’m coming home with nothing in my hands

but the trust that Your arms are still open.

Thank You for sprinting.

I’m here.

Amen.

Now stand up.

Start walking.

He’s already running.The porch light’s on.

The Father’s barefoot.

And the feast is ready.

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