Love, in its purest form, does not let go. It does not waver with circumstances or withdraw when met with rejection. It does not tally offenses or measure out affection in careful increments. Love, true love, pursues.

And there is no love more relentless than the love of God.

We are prone to wandering. Even when we don’t outright run from God, we drift. The distractions of life pull at us like an undercurrent, tugging us little by little away from the shore. We make choices—sometimes intentional, sometimes careless—that carry us further from the warmth of His presence. And sometimes, we simply feel lost, disconnected, adrift in a sea of questions and uncertainties, wondering if God is still near.

But He never stops coming for us.

Jesus tells a story of a shepherd who has a hundred sheep, yet when one goes missing, he leaves the ninety-nine to find it. He does not wait for it to find its own way back. He does not reason that losing just one is an acceptable loss. No, he searches. He braves the wild terrain, the steep cliffs, the dark valleys. He listens for the faintest cry in the night. And when he finds that sheep—frightened, tangled, exhausted—he does not scold it. He does not drive it home with a stick. He lifts it onto his shoulders, bearing the full weight of its weakness, and carries it home. And when he arrives, he does not grumble about the inconvenience. He calls his friends and throws a celebration, for what was lost has been found.

This is the heart of God.

Perhaps more than any other story, the parable of the prodigal son captures the relentless love of our Father. The son’s departure was not subtle; it was a deliberate, defiant choice. He took his inheritance, turned his back on his father, and pursued a life that he believed would satisfy him more than home ever could. He spent everything, chasing pleasure and freedom, until both ran dry. Then, alone and starving, he came to himself.

He rehearsed the words he would say. He expected rejection, or at best, reluctant tolerance. But when he was still a long way off, his father saw him.

His father had been watching. Waiting. Hoping.

And when he caught sight of his lost son, he ran. Dignity forgotten, tradition ignored—he ran. His arms flung wide, he embraced the son who had squandered everything, who reeked of failure and regret. There was no lecture, no demand for repayment. Only joy. Only love. Only the restoration of what was broken.

This is the love that pursues us.

It is a love that does not depend on our worthiness. It is not repelled by our failures or diminished by our doubts. It is the kind of love that walks into the dark places where we have hidden ourselves and calls us by name. It is the love that stands at the edge of the road, scanning the horizon, aching for the first sign of our return.

Paul, in his letter to the Romans, declares that nothing—absolutely nothing—can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. Not our mistakes. Not our wandering. Not our brokenness. Not even death itself.

God’s love is not cautious. It is not passive. It does not hold back, waiting for us to prove ourselves worthy. It moves toward us with unstoppable force. It is the love of a shepherd who will not rest until every last sheep is safe. It is the love of a father who runs with reckless abandon to embrace the child who comes home.

And it is the love that will never, ever let us go.