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"Come Back Before the Famine
There is a word I want you to hear. It is a strange word, but one that echoes your restlessness more truthfully than the slogans and bravado you’ve clung to. Koyaanisqatsi. It comes from the Hopi language and means “life out of balance” or “a way of living that calls for another way.” You may not have heard it before, but I know you’ve felt it.
It’s the ache you carry into every party. The silence that stays after every conquest. The disquiet that follows even the laughter. A drifting, as if you’ve walked off the map but keep pretending you’re still on course. That is koyaanisqatsi. Life tilted. Life strained. Life untethered from meaning.
You think you’re sowing your wild oats, that all of this is just “living while you're young.” But let me ask you: Why does it feel so hollow? Why do you need to keep proving you’re alive? Why does the approval of the crowd feel more like a burden than a gift?
Let me take you to another story. It’s one you’ve heard before, but maybe never entered. It is the story of a son who asked for his inheritance while his father was still alive. He left the house, just as you have, and wandered into a far country. There were parties there too. Bright nights and fast company. But famine always comes eventually. And when it did, he found himself feeding pigs, craving even their food.
That, too, is koyaanisqatsi.
What strikes me is not his fall, but his clarity. “When he came to his senses,” Jesus said. As if this realization was not the end, but the beginning of something real.
You’re not too far gone. Not even close. That restlessness you feel is not your enemy. It is the Spirit’s whisper through the noise. A call to come home. It is not your freedom that is hurting you, but the lie that you can outrun your hunger for love, purpose, and belonging.
I know what you want. You want a father to look you in the eye, not with disappointment, but with open arms. You want to be told it’s not too late. And here is the truth. The Father is already watching the road. He sees your silhouette even when you’re still far off. And He runs.
Come home.
Don’t waste more years blaming others for your choices. That will only keep you in the pigsty, turning in circles. Your father, your mother, your friends — none of them are perfect. But the only person who can change your course is you.
There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way of death. (Proverbs 14:12)
You can leave that path. You can come to your senses now, before the famine. Before the marriages fall apart. Before bitterness takes root. Before you use your childhood as an excuse instead of a foundation.
There is a robe waiting. And a ring. And a table set with music. Come home while your strength is still with you. While your heart is still tender. Before you harden into someone you never meant to be.
You are not alone in this world. And you were never meant to carry your shame like a suitcase across a thousand empty nights.
You don’t need more distractions. You need a Father.
Turn around. Let Him run to you.
Your older self,
who knows what it means to be found