For most of my life, I thought the story Jesus told in Luke 15 described two different kinds of people. There were the rebellious ones—the younger sons who ran away from home, chased whatever the world offered, and eventually found themselves broken enough to turn back toward God. Their stories were dramatic, messy, and impossible to miss. Then there were the responsible ones—the older sons who stayed close to the house, worked hard, and carried the quiet responsibilities that kept everything running.

For years I assumed those were two separate paths. One belonged to people who wandered far from God, and the other to those who remained steady and faithful. The parable felt simple enough when seen that way—two brothers, two very different lives.

It took me decades to realize something uncomfortable.

I had been both.

For many years I lived like the older brother—near the house yet strangely distant from the Father. I knew the language of faith and understood the expectations that came with it. I could navigate religion well enough, but relationship always seemed just out of reach. Something about the joy others described in their walk with God never quite landed in my own life.

Over time that quiet frustration began to grow. Distance slowly replaced curiosity, and questions eventually hardened into anger. Before I fully understood what had happened, I found myself wandering far from the very God I once thought I had been serving.

Looking back now, I can see that I spent nearly forty years outside the relationship God had been inviting me into all along.

A few months ago I finally put some of those thoughts into words. I wrote an email to an old high school friend of mine—someone who had unknowingly been part of this story for decades.

His name is Brad Windlan. Back in those days we played music together in a band. Today many people know him as Pastor Brad Rocks on social media.

There was something I’d been meaning to tell him for a very long time.

Brad,

There’s something I’ve wanted to share with you for a long time—something no one knew back when we were hanging out in high school and even after. It may sound strange, but I always envied you. I had always appreciated the way you seemed to move through life with a kind of fearless freedom. You just went for it. Running. Guitar. The rock-and-roll scene. Whatever it was, you were all in.

And while I admired all that, it wasn’t really what I envied.

What I saw in you—even back then—was a testimony. Please don’t take this the wrong way. At the time, you seemed farther from God than I was. And then, when you finally committed yourself to Him, you ran toward Him the same way you ran at everything else—fully, passionately, without hesitation.

That’s what I envied.

And here’s where it gets even stranger. I wished I could be you in that respect. In my twisted way of thinking, I wanted to stand where you stood—“farther from God”—so I could have that big, dramatic, life-altering moment that would push me all the way across the line.

For decades, I imagined you had been “blessed” with a longer runway—that being so far from God gave you the momentum to leap into His arms. And there I was, glancing over my shoulder at where you used to be, only to watch you run right past me into a depth of faith I couldn’t seem to touch. In my warped thinking, I convinced myself I was still standing at the river’s edge while you had sprinted across it with your feet never touching a drop of water.

I know now how wrong I was. We both started in the same place—lost. There was no greater distance between us and God except in my own imagination. But that false perception became my excuse. For years I told myself that if only God would drag me across the line or give me a testimony like yours, I’d finally get serious. I always couched it in the words that if God really wants to meet me where I’m at, then I’m all in. But what I really wanted was either the carrot or the stick—anything but surrender.

And in the meantime, I spent nearly forty years wandering in a desert of my own making, getting angrier, more frustrated, and eventually turning my back on God altogether.

Then, about three years ago, everything changed. For seven years, God used the steady, fiery faith of my wife to break through and overwhelm me. Looking back, I can see that He had been reaching for me all along before I finally saw Him for who He is.

Today—I’m all in. I still have my daily struggles—more than I’d like to admit—but the relationship with my Creator continues to grow.

And looking back, I realized that what I had been missing the whole time was relationship. I knew the religion. I knew the rituals. But I never understood that more than anything, God wanted closeness. Presence. Intimacy. That’s how it was in the garden. That’s how it will be for eternity. The weight of that truth finally hit me, and then I fell into my Papa’s arms.

For years I believed Brad’s story and mine were completely different. In my mind he had been the one who ran far from God and came back with a powerful testimony. I was the one who had stayed closer to the house, quietly trying to understand why faith seemed to come alive for others while something in my own life remained strangely distant.

That difference became the story I told myself for decades.

But looking back now, I realize something I missed for a very long time. The distance between us and God had never been the real issue—discovering the relationship He had always been inviting us into was.

Reflection

Stories like this have a way of holding up a mirror.

When we hear the parable of the two sons, it’s easy to decide which one we resemble most. Some recognize themselves in the younger brother—the one who ran far from home before finally realizing what had been lost. Others quietly identify with the older brother, the one who stayed close to the house yet somehow remained outside the joy that was waiting inside.

But if we’re honest, most of us have been both.

At different moments in our lives we have wandered, resisted, questioned, and wrestled. Sometimes we drift far from God. Other times we stay close to the rhythms of faith yet still feel strangely distant from the relationship our hearts were made for.

So, pause for a moment and look carefully, honestly into that mirror.

Where do you see yourself in the story today?

But don’t stop there. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Now, look again—just beyond your own reflection.

Do you see Him?

Because the parable was never only about the sons. It was always about the Father standing nearby, watching, waiting, and ready to step toward His children the moment they’re willing to turn around.

And if you look closely enough, you may realize something beautiful—Papa is already there.

Prayer

Papa,

For so long I thought the distance between us was the problem. I thought something dramatic had to happen before I could finally step into the life You were offering. But now I see that You were never waiting for a perfect moment—You were simply waiting for me.

Thank You for the patience You show Your children. Thank You for never turning away, even when we wander, resist, or stand outside the relationship You’ve been inviting us into all along.

Help me to stop running, stop striving, and simply turn toward You. Teach me to trust Your heart and to walk with You as Your child, knowing that the place I’ve been searching for has always been in Your presence.

Amen.