Towards

My heart feels bruised and sore. Tears seep.

I am weak, vulnerable. I fear rejection.

The Prodigal assumed rejection. He intended to beg.

Yet the Father came running. Towards him. Not away.

Today I can not grasp this grace. This acceptance. Of lack. Of need. I do not feel God's presence near. Reassuring. I stumble forward. Tears dripping. Clinging to this ache. This sorrow of less. This assumption of not being enough.

I need , today, the Father running.

Towards me. Not away.

I intend to beg.

Oh, but there He is! Surely He is running to berate, belittle my lack.

Yet here He is, clasping me in His arms. Kissing my filth. Ignoring the stench. Longing to fulfill and satisfy. He grips tight. Whispering love. And shouts acceptance.

Even today.

I am undone.