There Are No Lost Causes

Welcome to Scattered Moments. These are brief reflections on faith and the quiet places where grace appears. There is a thread that runs through all of Scripture, a faithful Father, full of mercy and grace, scanning the horizon, looking, waiting, watching for the broken, the beaten, and the burned out. His door is always open, his arms never tire. We rejoice in a Savior who offers unmerited grace, a grace that has never once said, You've gone too far. When I think of the prodigals I know, still hiding, still resisting, still wandering in the far country, I take comfort in this. The pull of his love is still at work. It hasn't weakened. It hasn't faded. It hasn't let go. He joins me in the waiting. He is the hero of lost causes and stubborn wills. For centuries, believers have even given that idea a name. Saint Jude Thaddeus, the one they think of when everything felt beyond repair, when hope had thinned to almost nothing. But even that points beyond itself. Because what we call a lost cause, God calls a story still being written. He can outlast anyone. And in the end, he is undeniable. But I have to remind myself, God is not bound by my timetable. He sees through eternity, past, and future. While I strain to see through the narrow lens of today, I I've tried everything, haven't you? How long will it take? Coaxing, pleading, even bargaining, trying to change hearts, trying to bring people back, trying to make them see. But if I followed his lead more closely, I surrender. I'd simply love and wait. Because that's what he does. He keeps the porch light on, the table set, the door open, and by his grace I will too. Henry Nowen once wrote in The Return of the Prodigal Son, the story of the Prodigal Son is the story of a God who goes searching for me and who doesn't rest until he has found me. Doesn't rest. That's the line that stays with me because it reminds me prodigals are not a problem to God. They're his specialty. And it's not a passive search. C.S. Lewis often reflected on the relentless pursuit, echoing the old image of the hound of heaven. The poem by Francis Thompson of a God who follows, pursues, and never gives up the chase. Not to condemn, but to rescue, not to corner, but to carry home. And here's the quiet truth. There's a prodigal strain in me too, a place that drifts, a place that resists, a place that forgets, and still he calls. Come home. You've denied me, but I have never denied you. Come home. You hesitated at my name, but I have called you by yours. Come home. You searched for a soother instead of a savior, but I've been waiting. Come home. All is forgiven. You are free to love as you are loved. He still believes in you. He still believes in me. And the door is still open. We have a father who never pulls back his arms. His porch light is still burning, the table is still set, and the welcome still is waiting. And for the ones we love who are still in the distant country, my prayer is that we will have the patience to love and wait as you do. And for the prodigal places within us, draw us closer still. Our closing hymn, written by Will Thompson in 1880, has carried this invitation through generations. Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling, calling for you and for me. See, on the portals, he's waiting and watching, watching for you and for me. Come home. Take care. Notice the scattered moments and share the grace.