Finding My Way Home
A Break in the Wilderness
Lent has always felt like a long journey to me, a road of quiet reckoning. It is a time of stripping away illusions, of walking through the wilderness with nothing to distract from the weight of my own heart. Some years, the road feels manageable. Other years, it feels like a vast and endless desert.
And then comes Laetare Sunday—this unexpected break in the journey. Like stumbling upon an oasis when I had resigned myself to the dryness, it interrupts the solemnity of Lent with an invitation to rejoice. Rejoice? Now? The name Laetare calls me to it, drawn from Isaiah’s words: “Rejoice with Jerusalem, and be glad for her.” But what if my heart is still heavy? What if I am still wandering?
Jesus, as he so often does, answers with a story. A story I know well, not just in Scripture, but in my own soul.
The Story That Mirrors My Own
There was once a son who ran. He took what he thought was his and went as far as his feet and fortune would carry him. He spent freely, lived recklessly, until one day, his hands were empty, and so was his heart. I know that story. I have lived it, in ways both obvious and unseen.
I know what it is to chase after things that do not last, to mistake escape for freedom, to reach the end of myself and wonder if I am too far gone to return. I have rehearsed the younger son’s speech in my own way: I am no longer worthy…
But I also know what it is to be the elder son—the one who stays, who does what is expected, who keeps the rules and waits for his reward. I know the resentment that can build when grace feels unfair, when love is poured out on those who seem less deserving. I have felt the sting of standing outside the celebration, arms crossed, heart closed.
And yet, more than either son, my heart aches to be the father—the one who waits, who watches the road, who runs toward the broken and the bitter alike. The one who does not demand explanations or apologies but simply opens his arms.
Crossing the Threshold of Grace
Paul tells us in 2 Corinthians that in Christ, we are a new creation. The past is not erased, but it is redeemed. And yet, I have learned that stepping into newness requires surrender.
The younger son had to surrender his shame—to believe that his failure did not define him.
The elder son had to surrender his pride—to understand that love is not earned, that grace is not a wage to be calculated.
And the father? He surrendered his dignity, running down the road like a man undone by love. He would not wait for the apology, for the proper steps of repentance to be followed. He flung himself toward his lost child before a word was spoken.
This is grace. A love that does not tally debts or weigh worthiness, but simply embraces.
A Foretaste of Joy
I think of Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son, of the father’s hands resting on his child—one strong, one gentle. Strength and tenderness, justice and mercy, all in a single touch.
I need that embrace. I need to know that no matter how far I have wandered, I am still expected home. That whether I have squandered or strived, I am still invited to the feast.
Laetare Sunday is that whisper of invitation. It is the reminder that even in the midst of Lent, joy is not out of reach. The table is set, the doors are open, and the music is playing.
So the question is not whether grace is waiting—it is. The question is whether I will step inside.
Where do I stand on the road today? Am I still in the far country, afraid to return? Am I outside the feast, unwilling to rejoice in another’s redemption? Or am I ready to take that step—into grace, into joy, into the love that has been waiting for me all along?
Today, I choose to come home.
Amen.
