We know the prodigal son’s story.
We know he demanded his inheritance, packed his bags, and left home. We know he squandered everything on wild living. We know he ended up in a pig pen, desperate and broken. We know he came to his senses and decided to return home. We know his father saw him from far off, ran to him, and welcomed him back with open arms.
We know all of that.
But here’s what we rarely talk about: What was the father doing while the son was gone?
Between the leaving and the returning, there’s a gap. A silence. A waiting period that could have been days, months, or even years.
And in that gap, while the son was living recklessly in a far country, what was happening back home? What was the father doing?
Was he angry? Was he moving on with his life? Was he writing his son off as a lost cause?
Or was he… waiting?
Let me tell you what I believe the father was doing. And more importantly, let me tell you what God—the Father this parable represents—is doing while you’re away.
He Was Watching the Road
Here’s what the Bible says: “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him.” (Luke 15:20)
Think about that for a second. The father saw him while he was still a long way off.
That means the father was watching. Looking. Scanning the horizon.
This wasn’t a father who had given up and moved on with his life. This wasn’t a father who was so busy he forgot about his son. This wasn’t a father who only noticed when the son knocked on the door.
The father was watching the road.
Every day. Maybe multiple times a day. He was looking for any sign that his son might be coming home.
And when he finally saw that familiar silhouette in the distance—even though the son was still far off, even though he was probably dirty and ragged and barely recognizable—the father knew. He recognized him immediately.
Because he’d been watching. Waiting. Hoping.
That’s what God is doing while you’re away. He’s watching the road.
Not in anger. Not in judgment. Not wondering if you’ll come back, but watching for you to come back.
Every single day, God is looking for you. Hoping today might be the day you turn toward home.
He Was Ready to Run
The text says the father saw his son from far off. And then it says this: “…and his father saw him and felt compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him.”
The father ran.
In that culture, grown men—especially fathers, especially wealthy landowners—didn’t run. It was undignified. It was beneath them. Running lifted your robe and exposed your legs, which was considered shameful.
But this father didn’t care about dignity. He didn’t care what the neighbors thought. He didn’t care about maintaining his composure or protecting his reputation.
The moment he saw his son, he ran.
He didn’t wait for the son to get closer. He didn’t wait to see if the son would actually make it all the way home. He didn’t stand at the door with crossed arms, waiting for an apology before he decided whether to let him in.
He ran. Full speed. Undignified. Reckless.
And when he reached his son, he didn’t lecture him. He didn’t say, “Where have you been? Do you know how much you hurt me? Do you know what you’ve put this family through?”
He embraced him. He kissed him. He held him.
That’s what God is ready to do the moment you start walking toward home.
Not lecture you. Not shame you. Not make you grovel or prove yourself.
Run to you. Embrace you. Welcome you home.
God isn’t waiting at the door with a list of questions and conditions. He’s watching the road, ready to sprint the moment He sees you turning toward Him.
He Was Preparing for the Celebration
Here’s what happens next in the story: The son tries to give his rehearsed speech—“Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.”
But the father interrupts him. He doesn’t even let him finish. Instead, he turns to the servants and says:
“Bring quickly the best robe, and put it on him, and put a ring on his finger, and shoes on his feet. And bring the fattened calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate.”
Notice: The fattened calf.
You don’t fatten a calf overnight. Fattening a calf for a feast takes time. Preparation. Resources.
Which means while the son was gone—while he was wasting his inheritance, while he was living with pigs, while he was hitting rock bottom—the father was preparing.
He was keeping that calf ready. Feeding it. Fattening it. Preparing for the day his son might return.
The father never gave up hope.
He didn’t assume his son was gone for good. He didn’t pack up his son’s room and move on. He didn’t write him off.
He kept preparing. Kept hoping. Kept believing that one day, his son would come home. And when he did, there would be a celebration.
That’s what God is doing while you’re away.
He’s not writing you off. He’s not packing up your place at the table. He’s not moving on without you.
He’s preparing. He’s keeping things ready. He’s planning the celebration for the day you come home.
Because He believes you will. He’s never stopped believing.
He Was Defending You
Here’s a part of the story we don’t often think about: What were other people saying while the son was gone?
The neighbors. The relatives. The people in town.
They knew this boy. They knew he took his inheritance and left. They knew what he was doing in that far country. They probably gossiped. Judged. Shook their heads in disappointment.
“Can you believe what he did to his father?” “What an embarrassment to the family.” “He’s never coming back. And if he does, he shouldn’t be welcomed.”
And the father? He probably heard it all. Every whisper. Every judgment. Every condemnation.
But he didn’t join in. He didn’t agree with them. He didn’t say, “You’re right. He’s a disgrace.”
He defended his son’s place in the family.
Even while the son was gone. Even while the son was wasting everything. Even while the son was living in ways that brought shame on the family name.
The father never disowned him. Never said, “He’s not my son anymore.” Never gave up on him.
That’s what God does while you’re away.
When the world writes you off, God doesn’t. When others say you’re too far gone, God says you’re still His. When people judge you for where you’ve been and what you’ve done, God keeps your place at the table.
He’s not agreeing with your critics. He’s not joining the voices of condemnation. He’s defending your belonging, even while you’re not home.
He Was Hurting
Let’s be honest about something: The father was not okay while his son was gone.
He wasn’t casually going about his business, unaffected by his son’s absence. He wasn’t indifferent. He wasn’t fine.
He was hurting.
The text says that when the father saw his son, “he felt compassion.” The Greek word used here is splagchnizomai—it means to be moved in your innermost being, to feel something so deeply it affects you physically. It’s gut-wrenching compassion.
This wasn’t a casual, “Oh, there’s my son. Nice to see him back.”
This was a father who had been aching. Grieving. Longing for his son to come home.
Every day that son was gone, the father felt it.
And that tells us something important: Your absence matters to God.
When you’re far from Him, He doesn’t just shrug and move on. He doesn’t say, “Oh well, their choice.” He doesn’t forget about you or stop caring.
He feels your absence. He longs for you. He grieves the distance between you.
Not because He needs you to make Him complete. But because He loves you. And love always feels the absence of the beloved.
God misses you when you’re away.
He Was Leaving the Door Open
Here’s what the father didn’t do while the son was gone: He didn’t lock the door.
He didn’t change the locks. He didn’t put up a gate. He didn’t post guards to keep the son out if he tried to return.
He left the door open.
The son could come home anytime. The father made sure of it.
There were no barriers. No hoops to jump through. No probationary period. No application process for reinstatement into the family.
Just an open door. A watching father. And a road that led home.
That’s what God does while you’re away.
He doesn’t lock you out. He doesn’t make it impossible to return. He doesn’t set up obstacles or conditions or requirements you have to meet before you’re allowed back.
The door is open. It’s always been open. It always will be open.
You can come home right now. Today. This moment.
Not after you clean yourself up. Not after you get your act together. Not after you prove you’re serious.
Right now. Just as you are.
He Was Hoping
Here’s what I think sustained the father through all those days, weeks, months, maybe years of waiting:
Hope.
He hoped his son would come to his senses. He hoped his son would remember home. He hoped his son would turn around.
He didn’t know when. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know what would finally wake his son up and bring him back.
But he hoped. Every single day, he hoped.
And that hope kept him watching the road.
Because hope isn’t passive. Hope isn’t just wishful thinking. Hope is active. Hope keeps you looking. Hope keeps you ready. Hope keeps you believing that what you long for might actually happen.
That’s what God is doing while you’re away. He’s hoping.
Hoping you’ll come to your senses. Hoping you’ll remember that home is better than the far country. Hoping you’ll turn around and start walking back.
And unlike human hope, which can be disappointed and crushed, God’s hope is rooted in His knowledge of who you are and what He’s placed inside you.
He knows that seed of longing for Him is still there, even when it’s buried under layers of hurt and disappointment and distraction.
He knows that eventually, in His timing, you’ll remember. And when you do, He’ll be ready.
What This Means for You
If you’re reading this and you’ve been away from God—whether for days, months, or years—I need you to understand something:
God has been doing all of this while you’ve been gone.
He’s been watching the road. Ready to run. Preparing for your return. Defending your place in the family. Hurting over your absence. Keeping the door open. Hoping.
He hasn’t written you off. He hasn’t moved on. He hasn’t given up.
He’s been waiting. Actively. Hopefully. Longingly.
And the moment you turn toward home—even while you’re still far off, even while you’re still a mess—He’ll see you.
And He’ll run.
Not to lecture you. Not to shame you. Not to make you earn your way back in.
To embrace you. To welcome you. To celebrate.
Because you were lost, and now you’re found. You were dead, and now you’re alive.
That’s what the father was doing while the prodigal was gone. That’s what God is doing right now while you’re away.
The Invitation
So if you’ve been standing in the far country, wondering if it’s too late, wondering if you’re too far gone, wondering if God still wants you back—here’s your answer:
Yes.
He does. He always has. He’s been waiting for you.
Not passively. Not indifferently.
Actively. Hopefully. Longingly.
He’s watching the road. And He’s ready to run.
So come home. Start walking. Even if you’re still far off. Even if you’re still a mess. Even if you don’t have it all figured out.
Just turn toward home and start walking.
And watch what happens.
Because the Father has been waiting for this moment. Preparing for this moment. Hoping for this moment.
And when He sees you coming, He’s going to run.
Not because you’ve earned it. Not because you deserve it. Not because you’ve proven yourself.
But because He’s your Father. And He loves you.
And that’s what fathers do when their children come home.
Have you been away from God? What do you think He’s been doing while you’ve been gone? What’s keeping you from turning toward home? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
