The Prodigal Journey

This isn't my most recent writing--that one is next, but this is one I never posted and feel the need to post now...

We all know the story of the prodigal son—it is such a beautiful picture of God and of his unyielding love for us. He never stops waiting at the door for us to return. He always welcomes us home. He runs to greet us with open arms.

I cry just about every time I read that story. I love the simple beauty of it all. But as I was reflecting on this story today, I had a thought… What about the journey the prodigal son took to get home to his father? In the parable, recorded in Luke, Jesus doesn't tell us what happened between the pigsty epiphany and the reunion of father and son. It just says that the son got up and went.

So what was this prodigal journey like?

I have quite the imagination, so as I ponder this question, I have a mental image of the son, setting out on this journey, dressed in rags, weak from hunger, and in general, in bad shape. Knowing what I know about Jesus' day, I am fairly certain that there were no sidewalks for him to walk along, and he had to maneuver through roads that today would be called wild terrain. I imagine a "road" that was narrow, filled with rocks and animal manure, and probably with trees with thorns. Again—that could just be my imagination.

As he walked along this "road," (again, I hesitate to call it a road in our sense of the word) I think of him stumbling from weakness, and probably falling flat on his face on more than one occasion. His hair was probably matted with dirt (and who knows what else!) but he didn't care. No matter how many times he fell and no matter how terrible he looked, he kept putting one foot in front of the other out of hope, but probably surrounded by a little fear, too.

And when he finally got close to home, it happened. His father saw him, and ran to greet him. Again, my imagination runs away from me sometimes, but I imagine the son sagging into his father's arms. I see him collapsing, and relying on his father to hold him up. The journey was hard, and now that he is home, he is going to let his father take care of him—clothe him, nourish him, and give him rest.

The son in this story had strayed so far—so far, in fact, that I am sure he never thought he would see his father again. And there he sat in the mire and muck that is a pigsty. (Not that I would know, because let's face it, those of you who know me know that I would never end up in/near/around a pigsty.) And it hit him—the son thought, "I don't HAVE to be here. I have a perfectly good home with a father who loves me. What am I doing here?" So without a second thought, he got up and set out for home.

And here is where it gets hard. The journey for the son could not have been easy. The story doesn't say he saved up some money from his job, or that he went home and got provisions. It says he got up and went. No looking back.

And as I said earlier, I don't imagine the road home was an easy road. Each rock that caused him to stumble was a consequence for his choices. Each time he fell from weakness –that was a consequence. Each thorn that cut his flesh, each rock that cut his foot, and each ghost that whispered failure in his ear were consequences to be endured.

As I am walking my own prodigal journey, I am reminded of the consequences of my actions. Not just my sin, but my actions, too. Everything I do—each of my actions, has an equal and opposite reaction. (Shout out to Mr. Pace—my high school physical science teacher…) The journey that I face as I walk back to my Father is wrought with consequences—the consequences of my choices. Some of them are good—but some of them aren't. And like the prodigal son's journey, my journey will end with open arms.

I read a quote today that struck me. It was by, of all people, Leonardo DiCaprio. He said, "We're all after love, aren't we? Love is what people are hungry for." Love is what people are hungry for… I totally agree with that statement. But the love people are hungry for isn't on this earth—it is in the open arms of the father—waiting for my return from my prodigal journey.

Broken to beautiful:

Growing up in Korea had so many benefits. One was kimchi. For those of you who know what it is, you are in one of two camps. Camp 1: best food ever. Camp 2: who wants to eat fermented cabbage? How disgusting. Love it or hate it, it was a benefit. (Clearly I fall into camp 1!)

In order to make kimchi, you have to get these clay pots, called *drumroll* Kimchi pots. I know. Creative. They come in a variety of sizes, but all the same shape. They are shaped like a vase—narrow opening that bows out to its widest point, and then it comes back to a narrow bottom. Oh yeah, with a lid. They are sturdy—Korean’s make beautiful pottery called celedon. These kimchi pots are not in the same category. These pots are definitely function over form.

Anyhow, back to the point. As I grew up in Korea, kimchi pots were everywhere—from the side of the road, to the local market, to… you name it. But another thing that was prevalent was the broken shards of pottery we would find while playing outside.

One day when I was four or five, my friend Jason McCoy and I were hiking the mountain behind our houses. It was just something we did. We definitely grew up in a different time, different place! So there we were, hiking around, probably playing something like war. But I remember tripping and falling and cutting my hand on a broken piece of kimchi pot. I remember thinking, “Useless broken kimchi pot—get rid of it…” OK, so those might not have been my exact words, but you get the gist.

Fast-forward 25 years. Over the last 2½ years, God has brought me to remarkable highs—closer to Him than ever before. When I lived in Korea the four years previous, I took a little vacation from seeking God. I pretended to seek Him, but for the most part, I sought my own pleasures. (BTW, it didn’t work out for me so well…) When I moved back here, God got my attention—subtly, because that is whom He chose to be at that point. And steadily, over time, God brought me closer to him. And I loved it—every minute of it.

And then, I went and shattered it all. I have been making such unwise choices these last few months. I have broken my life—and my functioning into a million little pieces. Like that kimchi jar from my childhood, I feel useless, broken and disposable. Just throw me away.

You see, I keep thinking that I was created for one purpose—like that kimchi pot. And once broken, it no longer serves a purpose and should be gotten rid of. But my God—creator God, provider God, loving God, has other plans. Thankfully. You see, just because I started out for one purpose doesn’t mean that is my only purpose. I may have started out as a kimchi pot, but that doesn’t mean I will stay one forever. In fact, brokenness comes, no matter how well cared for things are.

I am offering up to God my brokenness right now. I don’t see any value in the shards of my life—my most recent purpose is broken, too. But God doesn’t see brokenness when he looks at me. He sees the potential for my next stage in life. He is taking the broken bits of pottery that I am crawling on my hands and knees to offer him—and it is all I have to offer him, and he is beginning to rearrange those bits.

No—I don’t look like a kimchi pot any more. I don’t know what I AM going to look like when He is done. But this much I know is true—whatever it is, I will be a new creation—just with a lot more character.