Come On, Girl: The Heart of a Father “The Lord speaks of peace to his people.” — Psalm 85

Today, I went to Reconciliation. I still find it intimidating. Even as a Catholic convert who has come to deeply appreciate the beauty of this Sacrament, it very humbling walking into that space and laying down our sin, what we carry, and allowing ourselves to be vulnerable before God.

But today, in that vulnerability, I encountered something my heart desperately needed. I was received as a daughter.

Not as someone who needed to try harder, accomplish more, or prove herself worthy of love. Simply as a daughter who is deeply loved by her Heavenly Father.

That meant more to me than I can adequately explain. Situations in both childhood and adulthood have poked at the same wound, and even when healed, scar tissue lingers quietly beneath the surface. Much like literal internal scar tissue, adhesions have formed. Perhaps you have this experience as well. They shape the way we receive affection. The way we interpret silence. The way we measure our worth. Sometimes, without even realizing it, they shape the way we imagine God looking at us.

I know, intellectually and theologically, that God is a loving Father. I have studied it. I have read it. I have written about it. We are created because we are loved. That’s “it”. God loves us so much that He wanted us to exist.

But knowing something about God and allowing that truth to reach the deepest, most wounded places of our hearts are not always the same thing. Today, that truth reached a place in me that needed healing.

Through the gentle encouragement I received, I was reminded of a Father who is not standing at a distance, arms crossed, waiting for me to get everything right. Instead, I was invited to see a Father who delights in His daughter. One who sees her struggling, sees her trying, sees her getting back up again, and lovingly encourages her to keep going.

A Father cheering her onward.

Come on, girl. Keep going. I’m with you.

The road is bumpy, and I don’t always get it right. But I belong to Him. And goodness, how desperately I needed that reminder.

I have spent so much of my life trying to figure out how to be strong. Navigating circumstances I never imagined. Carrying responsibilities that sometimes feel heavier than I know how to bear. Searching for answers, praying for provision, and learning, over and over again, what it means to surrender things I cannot control.

Sometimes faith requires confidence and courage while other times it looks like getting through another difficult day and whispering, “Lord, I still trust You.”

Today, I was reminded that even these difficult seasons are not without purpose. God can work within the very circumstances we wish He would remove, drawing us closer to Him and teaching us to depend more fully on His grace. That doesn’t mean suffering is good simply because it is suffering, or that every painful experience comes directly from God. But no suffering is beyond His ability to redeem.

What struck me afterward was how beautifully this encounter echoed today’s Scripture readings. In Ephesians 2, St. Paul reminds us that through Christ we are no longer strangers or outsiders. We have been brought near. We belong to God’s household.

We belong.

Those two words carry extraordinary weight for anyone who has ever struggled to feel fully loved, accepted, or at home. And then there was today’s responsorial psalm:

“The Lord speaks of peace to his people.”

Not necessarily the peace of an easy life or prayers answered exactly as we hope. But the peace of knowing whose we are.

For my Protestant friends who read these reflections, I recognize that Reconciliation may be unfamiliar or understood differently than it is within the Catholic Church. I understand that. I once stood on the other side of that theological conversation myself. But I hope you can hear the heart of what I am sharing.

There is something extraordinarily beautiful about encountering God’s mercy in such a personal and tangible way. About hearing encouragement when you have arrived feeling weary. About being reminded, in a sacred moment of humility, that you are loved.

I didn’t leave with every problem solved. The circumstances awaiting me outside were largely the same as those I carried inside. But something in my heart was different.

I felt the tenderness of a Father who knows every wound I carry, including the ones that began long before I had the words to describe them. And then, as if the Lord knew I needed a little glimpse of hope beyond that sacred moment, there was Jack this afternoon. He took a bit of time coming out to “Mom’s fast car.” I realized why when he got to me. Today, Jack went across campus to choir.

For those who know even a little of our journey, you know that this is no small thing. He has been struggling mightily. Most of his school day is still spent in a sensory room where the world feels a little more manageable for him.

But today, he went to choir.

He stayed. And he sang.

He completed some schoolwork. He was agreeable. And as he walked out of school this afternoon, he even did a little booty dance in the window.

A booty dance.

I cannot tell you how much joy there is in those two words.

Was it a perfect day? No. Are we suddenly on the other side of all the difficulties we’ve been navigating? Nope. But it was a step. A small, beautiful, hard-won step.

Progress today was a boy finding his voice in a choir room, and hope looked like a little dance on the way out of school.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. There are still questions without answers, prayers I continue to whisper, and circumstances I would change in a heartbeat if I could. But tonight, I am grateful for this little glimpse of light through the storm clouds.

The same Father who is lovingly cheering me onward is holding my boy, too. That is the grace of today. The storm has not passed, but that I was reminded who holds us in the midst of it.

I walked into Reconciliation carrying the weariness of a mother, the wounds of a daughter, and the brokenness of the human condition. I walked out knowing I was loved.

And before the day was over, I got to watch my boy dance.

Somewhere deep in my heart, I can almost hear my Heavenly Father cheering us onward:

Come on, my girl; come on, my guy. Keep going. I’ve got you both.