Have you ever exited a retail store and had an employee check your receipt against what was in your bag? I suspect that at some time most of us have thought, "What if there is something extra in my bag by accident? Will they think I am a thief?"
Saturday afternoon I sat near the entrance to the super store, waiting for Charlyne to finish shopping and observed an employee eyeballing exiting customers, making certain they had paid the price for what was in their bags.
Unfortunately, some of the people we work with will welcome their returning prodigal mate home about like that eagle-eyed store employee. "Let me check things. What's this? A love note from the other person? Some incidents in your past I never knew about? You ran up bills? What kind of person are you?" The poor prodigal starts to wonder how much they are really wanted at home.
When I came home following divorce, Charlyne did not act like the package checker. She was much more like the greeter, welcoming me home, under any conditions, and at any time. Long before I surrendered to God's call and went home, I knew the Steinkamp store on Seventh Street had only a greeter, and not a checker. She had allowed Jesus to pay for my prodigal purchases, so what was in my bag did not really matter. I had been forgiven.
By the way, Saturday's super store was located in Okeechobee, one of my "far countries" while we were divorced. The visit had followed a train ride with grandchildren. Charlyne had driven up to bring us back home, and a Saturday trip to that rural community is not complete without a visit to the super store.
My wife has such trust in God working through me that she can take me back to "the scene of the crime," or more accurately, "the scene of the sin," to the heart of that rural community, the super store, and leave me alone, on a Saturday afternoon, without fretting over who I would see or how I might be tempted.
God has given me quite a woman for my wife. I pray that you will become that kind of person to welcome your prodigal spouse home.
God bless,
Bob Steinkamp
