It was fitting to celebrate and be glad, for this your brother was dead, and is alive; he was lost, and is found. Luke 15:32 ESV
I’ve always been a dog person. I read a quick story about Sage, a twelve-year-old Labrador who wandered away from her family one night. Wandering is kind of a dog thing. Two of mine got disoriented and lost after they got up in years. The police picked up the male and dropped him at the animal shelter and we got him the next day. Holly found a three-foot construction trench and couldn’t get her terrier body back out. We found her a couple of hours later. Sage was missing for a solid week. In cold, wet California. Where mountain lion sightings were common. Oh, and Sage is blind.
Family and friends had combed the area looking for the dog with no luck. On the eighth day, a neighbor spotted what he first thought was a trash bag in a creek. And then it raised its head. He put the old dog on his shoulders and carried her out of the canyon and back to her family. There was much rejoicing. And dog treats.
We connect deeply with the lost being found because we’ve been there. We were separated from God, blind to the danger we were in, exhausted and hopeless. And we were rescued. And there was much rejoicing.
For a while. Then we settle back into routine and complacency. Maybe we forgot the desperation of being lost. Maybe we forgot the cost of the rescue. Whatever the reason, stories like Sage’s jog our memory. Not only that, they impress on us how many others are still waiting to be rescued.
Separated from God.
Blind to the danger.