A mother’s love is a drawing and a driving force. For 30 years, Norma* called the 3ABN pastoral department, always requesting the same prayer for her son. I’ve been on a prayer journey with her since I arrived at 3ABN two decades ago, lifting Paul* up week after week.
Norma’s questions were always the same. “JD, I’m standing by my window, staring out at the empty street with my hands wrapped around a warm mug. And I’m asking God, ‘Where is my son? Where is my Paul? Is he still alive? Why doesn’t he call me? He knows how much I love him.’”
Paul, her firstborn, strong-willed, tender-hearted boy, had walked away from home as a teenager, choosing the streets over the security of a warm bed and three square meals a day. Over those 30 years, she had seen him only once when he briefly returned from the East Coast. But he’d left the next day.
“Mom, my culture is on the street,” he’d said the last time she saw him, as if he belonged somewhere she could never understand. Over the years, he had reached out only five times—fleeting whispers in the wind—leaving her aching with more questions than answers. Then, ten years of silence. Not a single call, not a single sign.
“God, is he alive? Does he even think about us? About me?” she whispered, pressing her forehead against the cool glass of the window she gazed through, searching the horizon for a hint of his return. She had called the police every six months, checked with hospitals, prayed with the pastoral department.
Two and a half years ago, she learned Paul had moved to the West Coast; and when she called the local police, they reported they thought he had relocated to San Bernardino, California.
As I prayed with her, I felt the Holy Spirit nudging me in a new direction. “Norma, let’s try a different approach. I’m going to give you the phone numbers of a few churches in that area. Maybe someone can go out to the streets and see if they can find him.”
With renewed hope, Norma called five churches, pouring out her heart, begging for help. One pastor brought the request before his elders, and one of them—a father with his own runaway child—volunteered to search.
Weeks later, the call came. “Norma, Paul has been spotted. He’s alive.”
She fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. “My Paul is alive!” she exclaimed.
But her joy was short-lived. The police confirmed he was frail and sickly, living in a tent city, refusing to come home. They couldn’t force him—he hadn’t broken any laws. And then, just as suddenly as he had been found, he vanished. The streets swallowed him up once more.
Over those 30 years, Norma had moved from Nevada to Missouri, and then to Arkansas; but she had never changed her phone number, just in case. Just in case today was the day he called.
Last Christmas, she had wrapped his present and hidden it in the closet of his room, just to be prepared in the event he returned. The holidays came and went, but shortly after the first of the year, there was a knock on the door, and when Norma opened it, she gasped.
“Mom … I’ve come home.”
Paul sat in a wheelchair, his once-strong frame reduced to frailty, his eyes sunken but full of longing. Norma covered her mouth, barely believing. “Paul? My son?”
“I want to reconcile,” he whispered.
Tears poured down Norma’s cheeks as she fell to her knees before him, clutching his hands in hers. “My son! My son! You’re home!”
Rusty*, her second husband, stood in the background—arms crossed, disapproving. He had never understood Norma’s relentless prayers, and had long since washed his hands of the prodigal.
But Norma? Norma rejoiced! “Come in, come in! Oh, my sweet boy, you’re home!”
She wheeled him inside, tucking blankets around him, smoothing his hair, preparing his favorite meal. She made his bed with fresh sheets, fluffed his pillows, and did everything she could to make up for the lost years. She chattered on, joy bubbling over, refusing to let grief steal this moment.
For three days, she spoiled him with the best of everything. Then, on the fourth morning, she entered his room humming, carrying his favorite hot drink.
“Paul?” she called softly. He didn’t stir. Her hands trembled as she set the cup down and reached for him.
“Paul?”
Silence.
A cry tore from her chest as she realized he was gone. Her baby, her wandering son, had finally come home. And now, he was at peace.
Tears mixed with gratitude as she clung to his lifeless body. He had come home. He had reconciled. And that was enough.
The story of the prodigal son from the Gospel of Luke, chapter 15, flooded her heart—how the father waited, watched the horizon for his lost son, and ran to embrace him when he returned. How his older brother had scorned him, much like Rusty who had stood outside, indifferent. But the father did not hesitate. He clothed his son in the finest robes, killed the fatted calf, and celebrated.
Her son had also been lost—and now, he’d been found.
Later, as she sat in the quiet of her home, she remembered Paul’s words before he’d gone to sleep that last night. “Mom, I didn’t want you to see me like this. I have rheumatoid arthritis, head to toe. That’s why I stayed away so long. I didn’t want you to see me suffer. But I couldn’t get you out of my mind—your love is like a magnet. I needed to get home to Mama and explain.”
She wept, but not in despair. God had heard her cries. He had answered her prayers. Not in the way she expected, but in the way that mattered. Her son had come home. And for that, she would praise the Lord all her days.
*A pseudonym.
