He Knew He Was Homesick

“For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and
is found.” So they began to celebrate.
—Luke 15:24

A certain young man had a father who gave him a warm and safe home,
food to eat, and most of all his love and loyalty. The young man could
have lived happily ever after, but he didn’t like the house rules. He wanted to
be on his own.

The father thought otherwise; he knew a young man needed limits and
respect for boundaries. His son would only be at odds with himself, utterly
unhappy with a freedom that knew no fear, limits, or respect for others.

But the boy wanted to leap the fences. Life’s mysteries beckoned; his pulse
raced; he feared he might miss out on life. He must find himself; as we say,
he had to have space.

His friends agreed. “It’s good,” they said, “for a man to assert himself. You
have to risk the boy to find the man. There comes a time to be recognized, to
get yourself free.”

The boy demanded his inheritance. “After all, he argued, it’s mine; I have
it coming to me.” So the father gave him his legacy. Now he could do as he
pleased, never stopping to think that all he possessed came from his father.
He wasn’t thankful for his father’s love.

He couldn’t stay in his hometown—too many reminders of his father’s
presence—so, like Kipling, he looked for a place “where there ain’t no Ten
Commandments.” He hied himself to San Francisco where a man can quickly
find and lose himself. He bought a condo by the bay, a new wardrobe, an
SUV. He was an instant sensation, one of the beautiful people.

He spent lavishly and threw himself into the company of trendy friends,
but something was amiss. A persistent melancholy hounded him, a dreary
sameness, a monotony that he could not shake. The unhappier he became,
the more he diverted himself by celebrating. And then he realized his diversions
controlled him. He could no longer be alone or free.

Most of his friends shared the same fate. They had that hollow look in
their eyes; their faces told their story.

He went from bad to worse—a downturn that drove him to the sinks of
skid row. He ran out of money and friends. Left with nothing but unsatisfied
longing, he turned to drugs to ease the pain. He had neither morality nor
modesty.

Then one day he awoke to remember his father’s house and its joy. He
remembered the good things: the love, the warmth, the knowledge that he
belonged. He knew then he was homesick; he had to go home.

But not as a son. He had forfeited his right to be called his father’s son. He
would go and ask for a mere servant’s role—anything to get back home. And
so he packed a bag and caught a bus for home. On the way he rehearsed his
lines: “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer
worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired men” (Luke
15:18–19).

When he was only a speck in the distance, his father saw him. He ran as
fast as his faltering old legs could carry him, threw his arms around his son,
and kissed him. He brought him to the house and gave him new clothes and
shoes. Then he threw a barbecue for all the neighbors, and he told every
guest, “This son of mine was dead, but now he’s alive again.”

Jesus told this story of the prodigal son more than two thousand years ago,
but the picture of the waiting Father has not faded. Our heavenly Father still
loves us and waits patiently and longingly for us to come home.

In one way or another, we are all like the wayward son. We have our dark
ages. We fool around with sex, drugs, ambition, and a hundred other diversions.
He permits us to use our bodies for self-gratification, our energy to
pursue selfish ends, and even our minds to devise arguments against Him.
And He will let us search restlessly, relentlessly, until we utterly weary ourselves.
When we exhaust our options, we turn to Him. Before we can even
ask for help, He wraps us in His arms and will not let us go.

Taken from Seeing God, © 2006 by David Roper. Used by permission of Discovery House Publishers, Box 3566, Grand Rapids MI 4950l. All rights reserved.