I haven’t written anything since last Thursday.

Ironically, the last article I wrote was about restoration.

If you read The Death of Death, you may remember that I actually wrote about the prodigal son. I was making a theological argument about death and pointed out that the father described his son as “dead” while he was away and “alive again” when he returned.

At the time, I was studying what separation and restoration meant in Scripture.

A few days later, I wasn’t just studying those words anymore.

I was feeling some of them.

I’m not going to share the details because they aren’t mine alone to share. But I recently experienced the pain of distance from someone I love, and then the joy that came when that distance began to close.

Somewhere in the middle of all of that, I found myself thinking about the prodigal son’s father.

I’ve always understood the son’s side of that story pretty well because I’ve been him. I’ve wandered from God more than once, if I’m being completely honest.

But I don’t think I had ever really stopped and considered what it was like for the father to watch his son leave.

Until now.

The Father Was Watching

Jesus tells us that the younger son took his inheritance, left his father’s house, and went into a “far country.” Eventually everything fell apart. He lost what he had, found himself desperate and finally “came to himself.”

He decided to go home.

Then Jesus says:

«“But when he was still a great way off, his father saw him and had compassion…”

— Luke 15:20»

I’ve read that verse more times than I can count.

This time I stopped.

How did the father see him while he was still a great way off?

He had to be looking.

That means something different to me now.

When you love someone, distance hurts. You notice what’s missing. You wonder. You hope. You wait.

And when that distance begins to close, the joy is difficult to explain unless you’ve experienced it.

For the first time, I understood at least a small part of that side of Jesus’ story.

And then an uncomfortable thought came with it:

How many times has God watched me wander?

Because I’ve been on the other side of Luke 15 too.

I’ve Been the Sheep Too

I’ve been the one in the far country.

I’ve been the sheep.

I wish I could tell you I’ve only wandered once.

I haven’t.

Sometimes we talk about wandering from God as though it belongs entirely to our lives before Christ. We were lost, Christ found us, and from that moment forward we faithfully follow Him without ever wandering again.

That certainly hasn’t been my experience, and I don’t think Scripture describes the Christian life that way either.

Paul writes:

«“For the flesh lusts against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh; and these are contrary to one another…”

— Galatians 5:17»

That’s an ongoing battle.

There have been times when I knew what God wanted and chose what I wanted instead. I’ve allowed pride, anger, fear and my own desires to get the better of me.

That’s the reality of the battle between flesh and Spirit.

Sometimes we follow the Spirit.

Sometimes we give the flesh exactly what it wants.

And wandering doesn’t always happen dramatically.

Sometimes it’s gradual.

A little compromise here. A distraction there. Prayer becomes less important. We start relying more on ourselves. Something gets our attention that shouldn’t have it.

Then one day we look around and realize we’re farther from where we were supposed to be than we ever intended.

That’s why the lost sheep means something to me.

Jesus says the shepherd goes after the sheep that wandered “until he finds it” (Luke 15:4).

The sheep wandered.

The shepherd went looking.

That doesn’t excuse the wandering. The sheep still wandered away from where it belonged.

But it tells me something about the Shepherd.

He didn’t stop caring about the sheep because it wandered.

And I’m thankful for that because I’ve needed the Shepherd to come after me more than once.

But Not Every Feeling of Distance Means We’ve Wandered

Not every season when God feels distant means we’ve wandered from Him.

This is where I think an important distinction needs to be made.

I’ve experienced those seasons too.

You’re seeking God, but something feels different.

Prayer feels empty.

You open Scripture and read, but the words don’t seem to hit you the way they once did.

Maybe you’re grieving. Maybe you’re disappointed. Maybe you’ve prayed about something repeatedly and nothing has happened the way you thought it would. Maybe you’re carrying guilt and feel almost afraid to approach God.

Or maybe you can’t explain it at all.

You believe. You haven’t abandoned your faith.

But God just feels far away.

I’m beginning to realize that feeling distant from God doesn’t mean He has distanced Himself from me.

When You Don’t Know How to Pray

Our feelings are real, but that doesn’t mean they’re always an accurate measurement of God’s presence.

And sometimes the feeling of distance goes even further.

Sometimes we can’t pray.

I’ve experienced this.

I don’t mean forgetting to pray or being too busy.

I mean wanting to pray and genuinely having no idea what to say.

There can be so much happening inside of us that we can’t figure out how to put any of it into words.

Maybe it’s hurt. Maybe it’s anger. Maybe it’s confusion. Maybe we’re exhausted from praying about the same thing.

You sit there knowing you need God, but nothing comes out.

Then, if we’re not careful, we start feeling guilty about that too.

Why can’t I pray?

Why don’t I feel close to God?

What’s wrong with me?

That’s why Romans 8:26 has become so meaningful to me:

«“Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought…”

— Romans 8:26»

Notice what Paul admits.

We do not always know how to pray.

Apparently, God already knew there would be moments when we wouldn’t have the words.

And Paul doesn’t say the Spirit waits until we get ourselves together.

He says the Spirit helps us in our weakness.

That changes the way I look at those moments.

Maybe I don’t need to force the words or manufacture some beautiful prayer.

Maybe all I can honestly say is:

God, I don’t know what to say.

And there may even be moments when I can’t say that.

What If Some of This Is the Fire?

God already knows.

He knows the hurt I can’t explain, the anger I don’t want to admit, the questions I don’t know how to ask and the things happening inside of me that I don’t completely understand myself.

My inability to put those things into words isn’t evidence that God has abandoned me.

According to Paul, that’s exactly where the Spirit meets us—in our weakness.

I’ve also been thinking about something else.

Peter compares the testing of our faith to gold being refined through fire:

«“…that the genuineness of your faith, being much more precious than gold that perishes, though it is tested by fire…”

— 1 Peter 1:7»

We talk about being refined by fire pretty easily when we’re not the ones standing in it.

But there’s nothing comfortable about purification.

Fire exposes.

It reveals what’s there.

And I’ve wondered whether some of these difficult seasons do the same thing with our faith.

I’ve thought about it almost like a moth being drawn toward a flame. It’s probably an imperfect analogy, but there’s something about it that makes sense to me.

We want to draw closer to God. We want stronger faith. We want to grow spiritually.

But sometimes getting closer exposes things in us that need to change.

Pride. Fear. Anger. Self-reliance. Our need to understand everything. Our dependence on feelings. The expectation that God should answer our prayers the way we think He should.

And, of course, the flesh that still wants its own way.

Maybe that’s part of purification.

Not that faith isn’t real until we’ve suffered, but trials have a way of revealing what our faith is actually resting on.

It’s easy for me to trust God when I feel close to Him. It’s easy to talk about His goodness when life is going well. It’s easy to pray when prayers seem to be answered.

But what happens when I don’t feel Him?

What happens when I don’t understand what He’s doing?

What happens when I’ve prayed and nothing seems to change?

What happens when I’m disappointed with God?

What happens when I can’t even find the words to pray?

Do I still trust Him?

Maybe that’s part of what the fire reveals.

Was I trusting God, or was I trusting the feeling of God’s presence?

Was I trusting His character, or was I trusting the outcome I wanted?

Was my faith resting in Him, or was it resting in everything going according to plan?

I don’t particularly enjoy asking myself those questions.

But maybe I need to.

I’m Still Walking Through This

Normally when I sit down to write, I’ve spent a considerable amount of time studying something.

I research it. I wrestle with it. I compare Scripture with Scripture. Then when I feel like I’ve reached a conclusion, I write.

This article is different.

I’m still walking through some of this.

And maybe that’s why I haven’t written anything for several days.

This isn’t me opening my research notebook and showing you where the evidence has taken me like I normally do.

This is simply me sharing something I’ve been thinking about through my own experiences and what I’ve been seeing in Scripture.

And through all of it, I keep coming back to Luke 15.

I recently experienced what it feels like to hurt because someone you love is distant, and then the joy of seeing that distance begin to close.

It made me think about all the times I’ve been on the other side of that distance with God.

I’ve wandered. I’ve been stubborn. I’ve chosen my way. I’ve needed the Shepherd to come looking for me.

But I’ve also experienced seasons when I wasn’t knowingly wandering at all and God still felt far away.

And I’m beginning to understand that feeling distant from God doesn’t mean He has distanced Himself from me.

Maybe you’re in one of those seasons right now.

Maybe you know you’ve wandered.

Or maybe you’re doing everything you know to do and still can’t understand why God feels so far away.

Maybe you’re grieving, angry or disappointed. Maybe you’ve prayed about something for so long that you’re tired of asking. Maybe you haven’t prayed because you honestly don’t know what to say anymore.

I don’t have some neat answer for all of that.

And I don’t think telling someone to “just pray more” or “just read your Bible more” always understands what that person may actually be walking through.

But I do know what Jesus showed us in Luke 15.

The son went into the far country.

His father didn’t.

The sheep wandered.

The shepherd went looking for it.

And Paul tells us that when we don’t even know how to pray, the Spirit helps us in our weakness.

That’s what I’ve been holding onto.

I’ve been the prodigal.

I’ve been the sheep.

I’ve been the person who couldn’t find the words to pray.

And I’m sure I’ll wrestle with my flesh again, because that battle isn’t over.

But there is one part of the prodigal son’s story that I don’t think I’ll ever read quite the same way again:

«“But when he was still a great way off, his father saw him…”»

I know a little more now about what it feels like to watch for someone you love.

And that has made me think a lot about all the times God has watched me wander.

The son was the one in the far country.

His father was still home.

And apparently, he was still watching the road.