The Prodigal Son

He left, not for freedom, but for a longing

he could not name,

a hunger deeper than bread,

a thirst no well could quench.

The road, dusted with regret,

stretched out before him,

each step a question

he did not know how to answer.

In the distant land,

the world opened its arms to him—

not as a mother, but as a stranger,

offering false promises,

illusions that glittered like gold,

until they, too, crumbled into dust.

He spent all he had,

not knowing he gave away more than wealth—

pieces of himself scattered

among the ruins of his choices,

lost in the echoes of laughter

that had long since turned to silence.

When the famine came,

It was not the land that was barren,

but his soul,

empty as the trough where he knelt,

feeding on scraps meant for swine.

In the hollow of his heart,

a memory ached,

like a faint melody long forgotten,

and he rose,

not out of pride,

but out of the weight of his own brokenness.

He did not return expecting mercy,

for mercy was too great a gift.

He only sought the smallest corner of his father’s house,

a place where shame could hide,

and perhaps, in time,

be forgiven by silence.

But the father,

who had never stopped watching the horizon,

ran.

His feet, unburdened by age,

carried him like wind across the field,

and when he reached his son,

he embraced him—

not with questions,

but with the kind of love

that does not need answers.

The son, too broken to speak,

wept,

not for the years lost,

but for the grace found.

And in that moment,

he knew—

the journey was never about the leaving,

nor the return,

but about the love

that waited

all along.

A robe was placed on his shoulders,

a ring on his hand—

not as a sign of what he deserved,

but as a reminder

that he was never forgotten.

And the feast,

prepared not for a servant,

but for a son,

spoke of a joy that can only come

from finding what was lost.

In the father’s eyes,

there was no reproach,

only the quiet joy

of one who knew

that love does not count the cost—

it simply welcomes home.

And I, like him, have wandered

through homes that never felt my own,

across places that held pieces of me,

but never the whole.

With each farewell, another fragment lost,

until all that remained was longing.

But He, who knew my path,

called me back without rebuke—

and in His love,

I found the home I’d searched for.

---

---

https://atomic-temporary-189351312.wpcomstaging.com/resources/prayer-requests