✨ When Grace Ran to Meet Me: A Prodigal’s Story ✨

🧍‍♂️ My Name Is Prodigal

They call me the Prodigal Son.

This is a story about my family... and my rebellious heart.

My father is getting up in years. He owns a large farm in western Israel—smart, savvy, and blessed by God. He loves his family and his land deeply. My mother passed away three years ago during harvest time. She was gentle, beautiful, and kind. I really miss her.

My older brother? He’s deeply rooted to the farm—hard-working, obedient, and always barking orders at me. He gets under my skin. Still, he’s my brother, and I love him.

🌾 Life on the Farm

📖 “There was a man who had two sons…” (Luke 15:11)

Our farm was just east of Joppa, a seaport on the Mediterranean about 35 miles from Jerusalem. My father is wealthy—not just in coin, but in wisdom. He’s always been a saver and a planner. In keeping with Jewish tradition, he planned to divide the inheritance: two-thirds to my older brother, and one-third to me.

We grew grapes for wine, olives for oil, hay and straw for livestock, and all kinds of fruits and vegetables: oranges, onions, leeks, carrots, cucumbers, figs, pomegranates, barley—you name it. Droughts were frequent, and winter rains were everything. We plowed with oxen and mules, sowed seed by hand, and harvested olives by beating the branches. We probably had 500 workers, maybe more. We also raised cattle, sheep, goats, and poultry. It was a rich, demanding life.

And I was sick of it.

🛑 Restless and Rebellious

Every day I watched my friends sleeping in, heading to the sea, laughing, drinking, living carefree. I wanted that life. I wanted freedom. Fun. Escape.

So I came to my father and said:

📖 “Father, give me my share of the estate.” (Luke 15:12)

I thought I knew better. I was tired of waking up with the roosters, blistering under the sun, and working fields that never seemed to rest. Day after day, it was sow, reap, press, store—repeat. Meanwhile, my friends across the road slept in, chased laughter, and strolled to the sea with no worries. I wanted what they had. I wanted out. So when the thought came to me—What if I asked for my share now?—it didn’t take long for desire to drown out wisdom. I convinced myself I deserved more than a farmer’s life. That’s when I made my move.

I saw the pain in his eyes. It was as if I wished him dead. But he didn’t rebuke me. Instead, he quietly divided the inheritance and gave me what I asked.

🌍 Life in a Distant Land

I packed up everything and set off for a distant country. I had money, laughter, new friends. I drank fine wine. I bought jewelry and robes. I gambled. I paid for pleasure and lived wildly.

📖 “…and there squandered his wealth in wild living.” (Luke 15:13b)

But before long, the money was gone—and so were the friends.

💔 Rock Bottom

Soon, I was homeless. Famine hit the land. No jobs. No food. I sold everything—even my clothes. I was desperate.

My old “friends” vanished with my fortune. The landlord threw me out. The inns wouldn’t take me in. I slept under trees, behind market stalls, or in alleyways with the dogs. The sky became my roof. The ground, my bed. I remember digging through scraps just to find a few olives or a stale piece of bread. My stomach ached from hunger, and shame clung to me like rags.

Eventually, I convinced a man to let me feed his swine.

📖 “So he went and hired himself out… to feed pigs.” (Luke 15:15)

He was a citizen of that country—wealthy, shrewd, and cold. I wasn’t even paid. I just wanted to eat. But the only thing I could get close to… was pig food. Carob pods. And even those were for the pigs. I looked down at the slop and thought, They eat better than I do. No one cared. No one gave me anything.

That pen became my prison. Day after day I stood ankle-deep in filth, swatting flies and watching pigs feast while I starved. The stench soaked into my skin. The silence was loud—just the snorting of pigs and the aching voice in my head: What have you done? I had traded a rich inheritance for a pigpen and pride for poverty. I was empty, filthy, forgotten… and far from home.

Then I came to my senses.

📖 “How many of my father’s hired servants have food to spare, and here I am starving to death!” (Luke 15:17)

🏠 The Long Walk Home

So I said to myself:

📖 "I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants." (Luke 15:18–19)

The road ahead was long. I hadn’t eaten well in days. My sandals were cracked and bleeding my feet raw. I kept looking over my shoulder, worried that the bandits might return. Twice they tried to rob me, but I had nothing left to steal. All I carried was shame—and the hope that maybe, just maybe, my father would show me mercy. As I walked, I thought of my brother, how smug he’d be. But mostly, I thought of my father. I wondered if he’d even speak to me.

I rehearsed my plea hundreds of times: “Father, I’ve sinned… I’m not worthy… just take me in as a servant…” It played over and over in my mind like a broken psalm. My eyes stung with tears I didn’t deserve to cry. I thought about our farm, the smell of the olive trees, the sound of the harvesters singing. I wasn’t dreaming of a feast. I wasn’t looking for restoration. I just wanted to be near him again—even if only as a laborer in the field.

Sometimes I would stop along the roadside, too exhausted to take another step. I’d sit beneath a tree or rest against a rock and stare up at the sky, wondering if he still thought about me—or if he had already forgotten. Was he angry? Disappointed? Or had he written me off completely, like a dead man? I didn’t know. But I couldn’t turn back. I had nowhere else to go.

The closer I got, the more my heart trembled. I could see the outline of our land on the horizon—the house, the fields, the fig trees I used to climb as a boy. Every step felt heavier than the last. I wasn’t just walking home. I was walking into judgment. But somehow, I kept moving forward.

💞 When Grace Ran

As I approached, I saw him — my father — standing in the field where the workers were harvesting. He looked older than I remembered… slower, maybe a little more stooped. But then something shifted. He turned, paused, and looked straight at me — even though I was still a long way off.

And then… he ran.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. My father, the master of a great estate, lifting the hem of his robe and running down a dusty path like a child chasing joy. My heart raced. Part of me wanted to run away again — not from shame this time, but from disbelief. I had rehearsed an apology, not prepared for a welcome. Yet here he came, sandals pounding, arms wide open, eyes already wet with tears.

Before I could fall to my knees, he grabbed me — filthy as I was — and wrapped me in his embrace. He held me tightly, weeping into my neck. Not a word of rebuke. Not a hint of anger. Only love. Unfiltered, undignified, undeserved love.

I choked out the words I’d practiced for days:
“Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.”
But he didn’t even let me finish. He pulled back just enough to shout over his shoulder:

“Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him! A ring for his finger! Sandals for his feet! Kill the fattened calf — we’re throwing a feast!”

And what a feast it was. Friends and neighbors came pouring in. Servants rushed about preparing dishes I hadn’t tasted in years. Matzo ball soup, lamb, figs, honey-dipped dates, warm bread… and yes, the best brisket I’ve ever eaten. But none of it compared to the joy on my father’s face.

Later that night, he leaned over and whispered, “Welcome home, son.”
I didn’t deserve it… but grace ran anyway.

😠 The Brother’s Anger

📖 “The older brother became angry and refused to go in.” (Luke 15:28)

While the music and laughter filled the house, my older brother was still out in the field tending to his work. As always, he was faithful, consistent, and punctual—dutiful to a fault. When he finished his tasks and approached the house, he heard the sound of music, dancing, and joyful chatter. He stopped in confusion. This wasn’t a feast day… What was going on?

He called over a servant named Noam and asked, “What’s happening?”
Noam smiled and said, “Your brother has returned! Your father has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.”

That’s when my brother’s heart turned cold. He became furious—so much so that he refused to enter the house. The very idea of celebrating my return was offensive to him. His pride rose up, and with clenched fists he stood outside, brooding. He saw only injustice, not mercy.

So my father—still wearing his party robe and likely with a tear-stained face—came out and pleaded with him. “Come, son. Join us. Your brother is home.”

But my brother wouldn’t hear it. His frustration boiled over.
“Look,” he said to our father, “all these years I’ve served you faithfully. I never disobeyed you. And yet you never even gave me a young goat to celebrate with my friends! But now this son of yours—who wasted your money on sinful living—comes home, and you throw him a feast?”

My father didn’t scold him. He looked at him with the same love he gave me. He said gently:

📖 “Son, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours… but we had to celebrate and be glad! For this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” (Luke 15:31–32)