Hope for the Child Who Walked Away

You look at the empty chair at the table, at the room that's too tidy because no one touches it, and you wonder if that son, that daughter, will ever come back. The pain of loving someone who chose to stay away is one of the quietest pains there is, because no one asks about it in small talk.

I know this pain better than anyone. The parable I told about the son who left home doesn't end with the father giving up on watching the road. It ends with the father running, because he never stopped waiting, not even when the waiting hurt, not even when the neighbors had long lost count of the days.

I don't control anyone's will, because I too gave freedom to my children. But I keep running toward every one who returns, and I keep working quietly in the heart of the one who's still far away. Your hope isn't naivety — it's imitating my way of loving: with open doors.