The Hound of Heaven

The Hound of Heaven (Retold: John’s Story)
inspired by Francis Thompson

I fled Him—
Not with wild rebellion,
but with a mask, a schedule,
a smile I wore to church.
I buried myself in roles,
in performance,
in the lie:
I am not enough.

He followed.

Through my wife’s quiet loyalty,
through the voice that said,
“This is not who you are.”
Through Leisa’s love—stubborn, undeserved—
He kept whispering,
even when I had stopped listening.

I fled Him—
into ambition, distraction,
self-justification.
Into the ache of not being seen,
not even by myself.
I believed the lie was my truth.
That unworthiness was my name.

But still—
He followed.

With unhurried pace,
with measured mercy,
with deliberate grace.

He did not break the door.
He knocked.

And when I lost my way,
He left signs:
A friend’s invitation.
A weekend I didn’t want.
A table with a name—
The Living Word.
He was already speaking
before I could understand the words.

I fled Him—
into rage and grief,
into the night my son died.
Into the scream that emptied my soul
in the dark of our driveway.

And still—
He was there.

I didn’t feel Him.
Didn’t want Him.
But He was already holding me
when I had nothing left to hold.

Twelve fifty AM.
A detail on a death certificate.
The same moment I looked at my phone.
I thought it was coincidence.
But it was grace—
etched in eternal ink.

I fled Him,
but I never outran Him.
Because prevenient grace does not chase to conquer—
it chases to claim.

And even as I sat in silence,
too wounded to respond,
He stayed.

Even as I forgot His face,
He remembered mine.

Even as I questioned His love,
He was writing my calling.

Even as I buried my son,
He was planting seeds of purpose.

And now—
I do not run.

Now I walk.
Sometimes I limp.
But I walk with the One
who never stopped walking with me.