He waits.

Every day, he waits. He watches.

His eyes scan the horizon again and again. Every day, the same horizon.

Every night, he goes to bed disappointed.

But even when he is asleep, he watches and waits and prays. He calls out in his dreams.

He wanders a barren land, calling out for the son he has lost.

Sometimes, he thinks he sees him. But always, he comes close and it's not. It never is.

And he wakes again, with dried tears in his eyelids.

He watches.

People come, people go in the dusty streets. Their voices drift up to him, carefree, angry, tired, unkind, friendly, laughing, sad. But never the voice he longs to hear.

And still he watches.

Dust rises on the horizon. Someone is coming. Every time he looks, stares, strains his eyes to see until the figure comes close enough to see it's not him. Not his son. It never is.

But he still watches.

It's hot today. Hot and dusty. The sun beats down. The Father has a headache as he sits on the roof.

A dust cloud on the horizon catches his eye and he shifts to watch it idly.

It's hardly worth it.

It has never been before.

It's been a false hope so many times.

But he watches all the same. The Father watches and holds his breath.

Because maybe, just maybe, this time it will be him.

Luke chapter 15 verse 20 "But while the son was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him. He ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him."

Glory to the Father who doesn't just wait, but comes out to search :)