Prodigal Father

Robe unfurls, edges fly.
Feet pound the dirt road, sending dust and little bits of rock scattering along the way.
His face is set, his eyes firm on the goal.
Me.
I stand here in wonder.
I stand alone, but not for long.
Here comes my Father, prodigal.
Why does he run so fast?
Why does he smile so?
Why does he hold his arms open wide?

Prodigal Father, you are too good.

Prodigal Father, why do you run?
Prodigal Father, why do you smile?
Prodigal Father, why do you welcome me back again?
You are too good.
I deserve none of it.

Prodigal Father, why do you comfort me?
Prodigal Father, why do you clothe me?
Prodigal Father, why do you love me?
Why?
I am nothing, really.

And yet you still come running.
Running.
You could walk, you know.
You could saunter.
Stroll.
Jog.
But no.
You run towards me.
Arms open.
Voice crying out my name.
And then you throw a party for me, and I am celebrated, as if I did something magnificent.
All I did was return to the only one I knew would take me back.
I’ve been to this party before, a thousand times.
Yet you celebrate as if it was the first.
You celebrate as if it will be the last.

Prodigal Father, you are too much.
Prodigal Father, your love is wasteful.
Prodigal Father, your compassion is reckless.

YOU ARE PRODIGAL,
and I am your son.

Prodigal Father, why do you run?