Wandering from my Father’s home,
Playing about the fringes of His grace,
Across the street,
Down the block,
Around the corner.
My own way,
My own strength,
My own resources.
Homeless. . .
Inheritance spent for hog slop.
Longing. . .
For “someplace where me and things go together,”
Remembering. . .
A warm fire,
A full belly,
A loving Father.
Abba, I have sinned.
Discovering. . .
Vigilant grace with open arms,
A warm embrace,
A shower of kisses.
Robes for rags,
Filet mignon for locust pods,
Sonship for servitude,
His life for my death,
His life for my life.
smiles. lovely very with great intesity, smacks of the prodigal...i was one.ReplyDelete
This is the heart of the prodigal son, isn't it? Well captured!!ReplyDelete
elegantly decribed journey, playing about on the fringes of grace, I wonder how I often I do that even now, words to ponder.ReplyDelete
beautiful. loved this, and thanks for sharing :)ReplyDelete
Thank you, faithful Kelly and Brandee.ReplyDelete
Welcome, Brian and Kati. It's nice to meet you. Yes, this is a prodigal poem. It took me a long time to know I was one, though, since I identify more with the older lost son.
Welcome back, Joybird. We all do that, I think. For me the fringes are often toying with a return to perfectionism self-righteousness (which is none at all).
The Lord be with you all.
Home. The perfect word for the title, and the perfect message throughout the poem. There's no place like Home when it is in Christ.ReplyDelete
@Amy "There's no place like Home when it is in Christ." Amen!ReplyDelete
this is breathtaking, sister. it makes me long for home.ReplyDelete
@emily wierenga Thank you, Emily.ReplyDelete
That longing is good, but for me it's strongest when this world feels least homey and I'm hurting. If you are there today, may the Lord come alongside and comfort you.