My son's come home again
I think I was a sophomore or junior in high school. I am not exactly sure, but this was a rather unusual assembly for us. There was a band there that was playing some Christian rock and roll and, being 1985 or 1986, this whole “Christian rock” thing was coming into its own. At any rate the band was pretty good and it seemed like everyone was picking up what they were throwing down. I remember one number in particular that rocked pretty hard and there were more than a few of my fellow schoolmates that hollered their appreciation. Yet that was not the song that arrested my attention that afternoon. No, the one that took me by surprise was centered around the parable of the Prodigal Son and had a refrain that went something like this:
Then he ran to me, took me in his arms
Gave me a hug and said, “My son’s come home again…”
Of course, being the refrain of the song, it was sung multiple times. Each time I heard it the words meant more and more to me until, well, let’s just say that I was glad the lights were dim because I was crying. I was familiar with the story, familiar with the God whom the father in the story represented. Familiar with why the father embraced the son when he decided to come home. What I had scant knowledge of was the picture that God brought to my mind over, and over, and over again:
I was the son. He was my dad. And he was hugging and smiling because I was home again. I was the one he wanted. I was the one he held. I was the one he longed for. I was the one he loved. It was….me.
I would ask him again if he loved me. I would have times where I doubted his care for me. I would still question his provision and his sovereign will. In my strength I still do. But he reached for me that day and he found me. He showed me something I had never considered before. He painted a picture that has never left my mind. He did indeed run for me. I stood still and felt his embrace. I saw a glimpse of home.