Will the Father Really Run to Me?

There are days when I know the Gospel in my mind, but I am not sure I believe it in my heart.

I have spent years studying Scripture, reflecting on God's love, reading theology, and even exploring neuroscience and trauma. I understand the doctrines of grace. I can explain the parable of the prodigal son. I know that "God demonstrates His own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us" (Romans 5:8).

Yet there are quiet moments when another voice rises from somewhere much deeper than my thoughts.

It whispers,

"Yes... but not for you."

It is difficult to admit.

I don't doubt that God loves humanity.

I don't even doubt that He loves many people personally.

What I struggle to believe is something far more intimate:

Does He really care for me?

Not as one soul among billions.

Not because He is obligated to.

Not because He is God.

But because He actually delights in me.

That question has haunted me more than I realized.

The Prayer That Exposed My Heart

Recently, while reflecting on my own struggles with fear and trauma, I prayed these simple words:

"Lord Jesus, my body still believes it is in danger. My mind knows the danger is over, but my body has not yet caught up. Sit with me until my body learns what my soul already knows."

As soon as I prayed those words, something unexpected happened.

Another thought immediately followed:

"Is that too much to ask?"

It surprised me.

I wasn't wondering whether Jesus could sit with me.

I was wondering whether I was worthy enough to ask Him to.

That moment exposed something hidden in my heart.

Deep down, I wasn't struggling with God's power.

I was struggling with His affection.

The Difference Between Knowing and Believing

I know the verses.

I know the promises.

I know the theology.

But there is a difference between believing that God loves people and believing that God loves me.

Not theoretically.

Personally.

Intimately.

Exclusively in that moment.

There are days when I read about the father running toward the prodigal son, and another question quietly forms inside me.

If I returned, would the Father really run to me?

Even if I could somehow see Him running...

Would I really believe He was running toward me?

And even if I believed He was running toward me...

Would I believe He was running because He genuinely wanted me?

Or would I secretly think He was simply doing His duty as God?

Those are painful questions.

But they are honest ones.

What If the Deepest Wound Is Not Fear?

For a long time I thought my greatest struggle was anxiety.

Then I thought it was shame.

Then I thought it was trauma.

Now I wonder whether something lies even deeper.

Perhaps the deepest wound is this:

I have never fully believed that someone could love me simply because I am me.

Not because of what I accomplish.

Not because of what I produce.

Not because I serve.

Not because I remain useful.

Simply because I exist.

Trauma has a way of teaching us that love must be earned.

If I perform well...

If I keep everyone happy...

If I carry everyone's burdens...

If I never become a burden myself...

Then perhaps I will be safe.

Perhaps I will be loved.

Slowly, without realizing it, we stop receiving love as a gift.

We begin negotiating for it.

The God We Secretly Imagine

Our theology may proclaim a loving Father.

Yet our hearts sometimes imagine someone very different.

Someone who tolerates us.

Someone who accepts us because Christ insists upon it.

Someone who is patient but emotionally distant.

Someone who loves us in principle but not with delight.

Perhaps that is why intimacy with God feels so difficult for some of us.

Not because He is absent.

But because somewhere deep within, we cannot imagine that He would actually want to be close.

The Incarnation Changes Everything

Then I remember something astonishing.

The Gospel is not merely the story of humanity searching for God.

It is the story of God searching for humanity.

"The Word became flesh and dwelt among us."

He did not wait for us to climb to heaven.

He came down.

He entered our weakness.

He entered our loneliness.

He entered our shame.

He entered our suffering.

Not from a distance.

From within.

The name Emmanuel does not simply mean "God exists."

It means:

"God is with us."

Grace Is Personal

Perhaps the hardest truth for a wounded heart to receive is not that God forgives sinners.

It is that He loves individuals.

He knows my name.

He knows my fears.

He knows the places where I still expect rejection.

He knows how quickly my nervous system prepares for danger.

He knows every attempt I make to prove myself, defend myself, or carry everything alone.

And knowing all of that...

He still comes.

Not reluctantly.

Not with disappointment.

But willingly.

A Question That Changed Me

I once found myself asking,

"Am I worthy enough for Christ to come near me?"

Then another question slowly replaced it.

"Is Christ the kind of Savior who comes near to the unworthy?"

That is a very different question.

The Gospels answer it again and again.

He walks toward lepers.

He eats with tax collectors.

He forgives those who fail Him.

He restores Peter after denial.

He welcomes Thomas in his doubt.

He promises paradise to a dying thief.

He always seems to move toward the people who feel least deserving.

Perhaps that is the point.

Grace is not God's reward for worthiness.

Grace is God's answer to unworthiness.

My Prayer Today

So today I am learning to pray a different prayer.

Not,

"Lord, make me worthy of Your presence."

But,

"Lord, teach my heart to receive the presence You already delight to give."

Maybe that is where healing begins.

Not when every fear disappears.

Not when every wound is finally healed.

But when, little by little, I dare to believe that the Father is not merely running toward humanity.

He is running toward me.

And perhaps, if you have quietly wondered the same thing, He is running toward you too.