“So he returned home to his father. And while he was still a long way off, his father saw him coming. Filled with love and compassion, he ran to his son, embraced him, and kissed him. His son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against both heaven and you, and I am no longer worthy of being called your son.’ But his father said to the servants, ‘Quick! Bring the finest robe in the house and put it on him. Get a ring for his finger and sandals for his feet. And kill the calf we have been fattening. We must celebrate with a feast, for this son of mine was dead and has now returned to life. He was lost, but now he is found.’ So the party began.” Luke 15: 20-24, NLT

He was the infamous “bad boy” of sixth grade. Ran a fight club in the bathroom. Flirted with every girl. Overflowing with charm—just enough to get himself into and out of trouble.

In other words, a leader—for all the wrong reasons.

Despite his antics, he became one of my favorites. You know the type—troublemaker with a heart of gold. He stuck up for the kids that no one noticed. He had a soft spot for those in need.

One afternoon, he plopped into the chair across from my desk. “Mrs. P, a bunch of kids are talking about getting saved. What does that even mean?”

My heart leapt. I explained it as simply and legally as I could: “Christians believe…” 

He listened intently. Then, his face changed. A light—one that wasn’t there before—shone in his eyes. He got it. He believed.

“Do you feel different?” I asked.

He paused, then grinned. “I feel like I just took a shower…on the inside.”

What a picture of grace from the mouth of a “bad boy” sixth grader—Jesus washing us clean.

He showed up to youth group a couple of times, but by seventh grade, he drifted. The stories I heard about him made my heart ache. I prayed for him, but as time passed, his name faded among so many other prayer requests.

Then one day, I saw him again, this time at our high school.

That same week, our church had been studying the prodigal son. As I looked at him, I knew he was mine. My prodigal.

I started praying for him again.

A week later, I was invited to present the Gospel at a First Priority meeting. As I walked in, there he was, sitting in the audience. To my knowledge, he hadn’t attended a First Priority meeting since sixth grade. I shared how I had seen many students come to Christ over the years—one of them being him. (For more on this story, read S{WALLOW}ED a previous devotional) I looked at him as I spoke, hoping he remembered.

As I spoke, he listened. He grinned.

When it came time to respond, I asked if anyone wanted to rededicate their life to Christ. His eyes met mine, and his grin grew wider. So did mine.

Afterward, we talked, and I shared the story of the prodigal son with him. He knew. He knew he was the prodigal son—the one who had wandered far, only to find the Father still waiting with open arms. He knew he had come home.

That night, he showed up to youth group, grinning from ear to ear.

At the end of the night, the back of a stool had broken. Jokingly, I handed it to him. “Here. I got this for you.”

He laughed. “I’m taking this home.”

Later, he sent our youth pastor a picture. There he was, standing in front of that broken stool, now hanging on his wall.

Across the wood, he had written:

“The day I came home.”

Heavenly Father, thank You for running toward us when we wander. Thank You for never giving up on Your prodigal sons and daughters. Thank You for answering prayers—even the ones we forget. You are faithful, merciful, and full of grace. May we never stop believing that You are working in the lives of our students, even when we don’t see it. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

Copyright Morgan Preston.

Morgan is a Christian Educators member, a middle school social studies teacher, and a First Priority leader in Kentucky.