Then the younger son
came to himself…
you are not asking me to leave myself
and become someone strange.
You lead me to become myself.
To leave the far country of the things I desire,
to surrender the false ID all I pretend,
and return to the one you create me to be.
Even all my running away was running toward something,
toward a part of me I couldn’t name,
a place where you knew I would be—
and you were there, waiting for me.
Even my leaving was approaching you.
Even my scattering of treasures
was a seeking of what I treasure the most.
By your grace, then, may I come to myself:
to name my desires and fears,
to face my wounds and shadows,
to own my life—
and to come home to the beloved I am,
to the me of me, the you of me,
to know where I belong,
to remember whose I am.
Moment by moment
I pray to quit the pig sty of expectations and pretense
and come home to my belovedness,
come to myself, which is
to come to you.