Seven years of wandering—hungry, dirty, alone and wallowing in the filth of the unclean, feeding scraps to the scavenging swine. Nothing for me—not even the husks of the pods. I know the pain of starvation—of realizing I've wasted my inheritance and enslaved myself as a keeper of the unclean. Stubbornly resisting the invitations to turn back to my father, I've lost so much. Does anyone care?

I hear his voice. I see the comforts of home. I think of my brother. The sounds of praise and adoration from my father's servants in the fields are ringing in my ears. Starving and humbled, I realize my father's servants have all the food they can eat. I will go to my father and confess my sin. I cannot presume to be his daughter again. No, I've gone too far for that! I'll ask him to make me a servant.

Weak and determined, I place one dirty bare foot in front of the other, and begin the long humiliating journey. I wonder about love. Does my father's love mean he will love me when it is convenient? Does he only love me when I behave properly, but when I don't, he'll turn away? Does he love me when I am useful, but when I fail he'll turn to another? Does he love me when I make him proud, but when I disappoint him, he'll withdraw his love? Does his love waver, bend or break? Does his love hurt, desert or require? I hope for a love beyond belief. But even if it exists, I don't deserve it—not after what I've done.

The outline of my father's house on the horizon immobilizes my blistered and throbbing feet. He's there, standing by the gate. That's his robe, white and clean, shining brightly in the noonday sun. It's as if he has been waiting for me to come home. Surely not, why would he?

I take a cleansing breath. My heart begins to pound in my chest as I realize he's not standing, he's running—arms outstretched to embrace me. Tears spill from my eyes as he wraps me in his arms. Weeping, he kisses me as I try to blurt out my rehearsed speech. "I'm sorry. I have sinned against you. I have wasted my inheritance. I am no longer worthy to be your daughter."

I'm interrupted by his exuberant commands to his servants, "Bring the best, cleanest, whitest robe. Bring new sandals. Place my signet ring on her finger."

"But ... but..." I try to continue my speech, but it gets lost in his commands to make a sacrifice and prepare a feast. ... In my honor? Did I hear right?

My thoughts are jumbled as I try to understand my father's love. It is not earned, not deserved, not convenient or proud. It is unchangeable. He loves me because he chooses to love me. My father is love. And his unexpected actions are an expression of his love toward me. I begin to see it clearly for the first time.

The story of the prodigal daughter (son) is one the Holy Spirit brought to mind repeatedly as I wandered for seven of the longest years of my life. During that time, I squandered my substance, the love of my family, and nearly my own life on an expensive and destructive dance with the devil. Jesus began drawing me back to Him gradually, but the journey home really began after the birth of our second son in September 2002. I experienced what the birth of a child did to a heart, and I realized the unwavering love of a parent.

On April 17, 2006, at the Women's Ministries Retreat at Camp Au Sable, I finally rededicated my life to Jesus and entered into the gates of my Father's house. Through the healing effects of His Word, and the love and care I received from other women, my Father gave me the bread I had been craving, the balm I needed for my bruised and broken heart, and the living water that soothed my soul.

Each time the thought came to me that I couldn't go back, the Holy Spirit reminded me that my Father was waiting and watching with open arms, ready each moment to wrap me in His embrace and welcome me home.

Finally, I was right where I needed to be. I depended on His mercy and love, because I knew I had no goodness of my own to offer.

There were so many of my Father's servants involved in my journey home: the Health and Temperance leader whose exercise class brought me into the church doors without pressure or threat; my husband's aunt who invited me to the class and attended with me so I wouldn't feel uncomfortable; the women's ministries leader who invited me to the retreat and made me feel welcomed and comfortable about accepting the invitation; the Women's Ministries Board members and the amazing speakers whose love for Jesus and concern for women were more than evident; and, finally, the women I met whose pain and joy mingled into a portrait of my own experience.

Now I have the joy of serving my Father. I eat from His table and am satisfied. However, I am not just my Father's servant, I am also His daughter. I serve Him with love because He first loved me.

My Father has so many beautiful servants whose efforts were a symphony of love, composed to draw the soul of one lost prodigal daughter. If you are a prodigal daughter, wasting your inheritance in a far country, please go home. Go home to your Father's house. He is waiting for you with open arms.

Kasey McFarland is a member of the Women's Ministries Board in the Michigan Conference.