There is freedom waiting.

There's this poem I love by Erin Hanson.

There is freedom waiting for you,

On the breezes of the sky,

And you ask,

'What if I fall?'

Oh but my darling,

What if you fly?

I love it because it reminds me, in the truth of simplicity, that Holy Spirit is my best friend. That Abba taught me how to fly again. Literally. That Jesus rewrote my story of despair so that it could be one of complete redemption, restoration I didn't deserve and rescue that I didn't expect. That He took me in all my fear and all my doubt and that He took my hand and led me into the wide open spaces of the freedom's sky.

I often contemplate the way that His love ruins me, floors me, finds me and amazes me every single moment of every single day.

How loving God with all my heart, soul, mind and strength is my meaning and purpose.

This poem reminds me for always that joy really does come with the morning.

It reminds me forever that I've seen the sunrise.

That even against a backdrop of the darkness of nights, there is the eternal-certainty of the exquisitely beautiful and radiant dawn.

I've been thinking this week about the story of the prodigal son. I usually read this with myself in the role of the son. You know?

I imagine myself walking down the long, dirt road, regret and remorse filling my mind. I can almost taste the tears. I can feel the pain. The doubt of acceptance. I see the dust of the Father running. I can imagine the wonder of the forgiveness on offer. The disbelief that one so unworthy could be loved.

But this week, I've been thinking about this story from a different perspective.

From the viewpoint of the Father.

A Father who had waited and every-day-watched, waiting and every-day-waiting, hoping and every-day-hoping, for the one day that his watching would reveal his beloved prodigal coming home.

A Father who had everyday forsaken life's other distractions and activities to instead watch the horizon.

A Father who had spent evenings battling the despair of disappointment that another day had passed when he and his child were separate.

A Father who longed for the connection.

A Father who had cried tears in the longing.

Who had felt the despair.

Despite the fact his son had rejected him in every, single, possible way. Despite the fact his son had taken every gift on offer and squandered it. Despite the fact his son had brought shame on his entire family.

Still this Father watched. And hoped. That today could finally be the day. That everything changed.

Because today can always finally be the day.

That everything changes.

Which is why when he finally saw his prodigal taking one step down the dusty path. When he saw a tiny figure in rags on the distance of the horizon. He actually saw a figure who had never been absent from his heart for a moment.

And so his Father ran. Even though his son was still a long way off, he ran. A reckless-running-in-the-dust kind of love that surpassed dignity and reason. A compassion that embraced the guilt of imperfection and the clothing of rags with the kiss of a Father who knew only mercy.

This running-undignified-overflowing-with-love-collision. This Father-doing-everything-to-be-close-to-his-prodigal-embrace. This messy-emotional-beautiful-forgiveness. This bigger-than-our-rags-and-our-regrets-reality.

His Father clothes him.

Our Father clothes us.

But I can't quite get my head around the waiting-watching-running God. The meekness and humbleness and a beauty so amazing.

And so today as I wait, I also believe. That this could be the day that everything changes.



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