I ran away from home a couple of times as a child. I threatened to do so many more times than that. The first time I remember making the threat, I was in the living room letting my mother know how unhappy I was and exactly what I intended to do about it. I relayed all my grand plans with the confidence only a clueless eight-year-old can muster while my mom just nodded and went on working on her crossword puzzle. My younger sister, on the other hand, was very interested in my plans. In fact, she fully expected me to take her with me. I was fully NOT interested in taking her with me. No self-respecting runaway wants to have his little sister tag along on his great rebellion. That pretty much put an end to that.
Some time later, I did manage to make my escape. I basked in the freedom of being my own man and making decisions for myself. I wondered in and out of the shops near my neighborhood just south of Atlanta. I felt pretty good about myself. Until I got hungry. Until it began to get dark. Until the temperature began to fall. I remember spending the night underneath some bushes beside another apartment building in our same complex—just across the parking lot from my own building. I could see my sliding glass door, which I knew opened into the kitchen, which I knew was warm . . . and contained food. But I was stubborn, and I curled up under that bush and tried my best to sleep my misery away.
I’ve run away as an adult, too. Oh, not from home, but from Home. There is so much that woos me, entices me, draws me away—maybe you have some idea of what I am talking about. There is so much “out there” that makes my life in the Kingdom seem drab and humdrum. I begin to think how much more exciting and rewarding and fulfilling life would be if I could do whatever it is I want to do. And so I run. Well, sidle, really. I drift away, almost unnoticed by everyone; almost unnoticed by myself until I look up and find myself on the outside looking in. Did you know you can be in the building, in the denomination, in the church, but still on the outside looking in?
What strikes me, though, is that even in my deepest darknesses, my most flamboyant rebellions, my most outrageous failures and lapses, I find I’m sleeping not so far away at all from the place where I belong. I can still see in through the window. I can almost feel the warmth of the light; and it’s that light that draws me back every time. Every. Single. Time. However far I drift, when the darkness begins to descend and the air turns cool, I find my feet, almost of their own accord, turn towards home. Even when I’m not ready to go back inside, I still feel the urge to be close.
Maybe that’s how it is for you when you run, I don’t know. I hope it is. Maybe your sleeping under a bush like I was. Maybe your stuck in the bush like I have been, like so many little lost lambs have been. If so, listen. There are feet heading your way. Do you hear the steps? Do you hear the Voice calling you, maybe like the Voice that called out in the garden way back in the time of the first runaways.
“David . . . where are you? Beloved . . . can you hear me?”
I’ve heard that voice a few times, I confess, and I haven’t always answered right away. But I’ve always been found, anyway. And I’ve always been carried back home. Where I belong.
