I'm still trying to get my mind around the prodigality of God. That might be an impossible task because it is quite beyond my limited left-brain. The God of purple loosestrife and glossy poison ivy is the God who doesn't always play fair, at least by my standards.
The overwhelming excessiveness of Creation pales compared to the prodigality of God's love. This is love lavished with abandon and, by my standards, with poor taste. This is the God who pays the last-minute slackers the same wage as the hard-working folk like me, the ones who show up early and skip their lunch break. This is the God who then has the temerity to ask, "Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?"
This is the God of thistles and purple loosestrife, the God of bats and garden slugs. This is the Prodigal God who overwhelms me with his prodigality.— Margaret Guenther, Just Passing Through: Notes from a Sojourner