Today I sat quietly with my Bible open to Luke 15:11–24. I’ve read the parable of the prodigal son many times, but somehow, this morning it settled on me in a deeper, more personal way. Maybe it’s because lately I’ve been wrestling with guilt that lingers like a shadow—guilt from mistakes I’ve made, expectations I haven’t met, and moments when I’ve wandered farther from God than I ever intended to. And yet, in this story, I see a Father who does not measure out His love according to my behavior, my consistency, or my ability to keep everything together. I see a Father whose love rushes toward me even when I feel least deserving of it.
As I read, I could almost picture the younger son rehearsing his speech on the long road home—practicing the words he hopes will soften his father’s disappointment: “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” I imagine his voice trembling as he tries to prepare for rejection or punishment. But the part that grips me most is that he never gets to finish that speech. His father doesn’t even let him. Instead, Scripture says, “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and had compassion, and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him.”
Every single time I read that, something in me breaks open. The Father ran. He ran toward the one who squandered everything, toward the one who had been reckless and selfish, toward the one who betrayed his love. And He didn’t hesitate—not for a moment.
Lord, why is it so hard for me to believe You treat me like that? Why do I fall into the same trap of thinking I need to earn Your affection, compensate for my failures, or prove that I’m worth loving?
Sometimes I project onto You the reactions I’ve experienced in people—conditional acceptance, approval that hinges on performance, affection that can shift without warning. But You’re not like that. You never have been. “I will be a Father to you, and you shall be My sons and daughters,” You tell me in 2 Corinthians 6:18. You don’t say, “I might be your Father if you behave.” You declare Your love as a certainty, a settled truth. Today I needed that reminder more than anything.
As I sit with this parable, I feel You gently exposing the way I’ve been approaching You—not as a beloved daughter, but as a servant who thinks she has to earn back her place. I come with apologies, promises, and anxiety, hoping You’ll let me back in. But You don’t negotiate. You don’t stand at a distance with crossed arms. You run toward me with compassion. You wrap me in Your love before I can even explain myself.
God, thank You that Your love doesn’t depend on me. Thank You that You welcome me back even when I’ve wandered off the path You set for me. The prodigal son didn’t earn his father’s embrace, and I can’t earn Yours. This truth brings such freedom, and yet I still struggle to fully accept it.
Sometimes I wonder if the son hesitated at the edge of the property—if he felt fear knotting in his stomach, if he paused before taking those final steps. That hesitation feels familiar. There are moments when I’m ashamed to come to You because I think my sin or my inconsistency has somehow changed Your heart toward me. But You remind me again and again that nothing I’ve done can dim Your love. “For I am convinced that neither death nor life… will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Lord, I want to rest in that truth. I want my heart to stop striving for a place it already has.
Father, today I bring You all the parts of me that feel messy, broken, or lost. I lay before You the mistakes that still echo in my mind, the moments when I chose my own way, and the fears that make me hesitate to trust Your goodness. Please help me to see myself the way You see me—not as a servant trying to earn a place at the table, but as a daughter who already belongs there.
I imagine what it must have been like for the son to be robed in his father’s best garment—to feel the fabric wrap around him like dignity restored. I picture the ring sliding onto his finger, the sign of authority, belonging, identity. The sandals placed on his feet, the feast prepared in his honor, the music beginning, and the household rejoicing. All for someone who expected rejection. All for someone who felt unworthy. That kind of love feels almost too extravagant, too overwhelming, but that’s exactly the point. You don’t love as the world loves. Your love is perfect, unconditional, and unchanging.
Jesus, I think about the times I’ve wandered—maybe not into physical places of rebellion, but into emotional and spiritual ones. Times when I’ve let anxiety lead me away from Your peace. Times when I’ve allowed discouragement to push me into self-reliance. Times when I’ve sought affirmation from people instead of from You. And each time, You’ve waited for me with patience that humbles me. You’ve whispered truth into my confusion, reminded me of who I am, and drawn me back with kindness.
Lord, I praise You because even when I feel lost, You never lose sight of me. Even when I distance myself, Your love remains steady. And even when I fall short, You restore me gently without hesitation.
Father, today I come before You with a grateful heart. Thank You for the reminder of Your unconditional love. Thank You that Your arms are always open, always welcoming, always full of compassion. Help me let go of the fear that I have to work for Your affection. Teach me to receive Your grace with humility and joy. Remind me that I am Your daughter—not because I earned it, but because You chose me. Lord, help me to live in the freedom of being loved without condition. And when I wander, please bring me home quickly. Amen.
As I reflect, I realize how often I focus on my failures, while You focus on my identity. You don’t look at my past and call me unworthy. You look at me and call me Yours. You see not the mess I’ve made, but the person You created me to be—the woman You’re shaping, the daughter You delight in.
That truth settles over me like warmth. It softens something inside me that has been tense for too long.
I think of the joy in the father’s voice when he said, “For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.” That joy wasn’t cautious or restrained. It was full. It was loud. It was overflowing. Sometimes I forget that You rejoice over me—not reluctantly, not quietly, but gladly. “The Lord your God… will rejoice over you with singing.” It amazes me that Your love is not just patient but celebratory.
Lord, thank You that my story is never too broken for redemption. Thank You that no matter how far I drift, You always make a way back. Thank You that Your love doesn’t fade with my failures or strengthen with my successes. It simply is—constant, steady, true.
Tonight, as I prepare for rest, I want to carry the image of Your open arms with me. I want it imprinted on my heart so deeply that when guilt or fear tries to whisper lies, I will remember the truth of who You are. A Father who runs. A Father who embraces. A Father who restores. A Father who celebrates my return every single time.
Lord, let my life reflect that love—toward myself, toward others, and toward You. Help me walk in the confidence of a daughter who knows she is cherished. Help me show compassion the way You’ve shown it to me. And help me rest, truly rest, in the security of Your grace.
Amen
The Christian Tech-Nerd 