If you have the opportunity to attend a Mighty Is Her Call retreat, go. I attended one a few weeks ago, and browsing through my journal, I found that I had written the theme of the retreat: I am an anointed and beloved daughter of God.

​This theme is difficult for me. The retreat was wonderful, but it did not address my particular problem.

​My relationship with Jesus is solid. He is my friend, my brother, my Savior. I call on the Holy Spirit every day, asking for intercession before phone calls, conflicts, or conversations. I’ve recognized his grace lighting up my life.

​However, God the Father has always been a challenge for me. God the Loving Father—Abba as our Lord calls him—is much harder for me to wrap my mind around because my own father was not loving or kind. I think many people have this experience. The word “father” gives me pause, and the idea of myself as a beloved daughter of the Father is even more unfathomable.

​This space cannot contain the volumes on forgiveness and mercy that need to be processed to foster a real relationship with the Father. There are many saints who have lived a shared experience: St. Germaine, St. Dymphna, and St. Francis of Assisi all come to mind. But what I would like to share with you today is a true story of what it can be like, or what it should be like, that I observed in church one Sunday.

​My family attends Sunday Mass in a church that has a choir (director, risers, organ, and piano) to the side of the sanctuary rather than behind or above. The director of our choir is a young dad. I saw him as a newlywed, his beautiful bride in the soprano section. I watched their young family as the mother-bride stopped singing and sat nearby, wrestling first one, then two, now three little ones with occasional help from the deacon’s wife and teen daughter.

​I don’t know this family, and they don’t know me. Perhaps they have watched my family through these years, transforming in a different way as, one by one, my children have left for college and moved out of our nest. They might be watching my little ones turn into moody teens. My pew is getting less full as theirs is overflowing.

​One Sunday, the middle child, a deliciously chubby cherub, danced from her mother’s pew straight to her father, who was leading his singers. I mean, she literally danced. She twirled and spun to the chorus of the Sanctus with her arms spread wide and her curls thrown back. She whirled and pirouetted around and around.

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Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus,
Dominus Deus Sabaoth.
Pleni sunt caeli et terra, gloria tua.
Hosanna in excelsis.
Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.
Hosanna in excelsis.

​Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of hosts,
Heaven and earth are full of your glory.
Hosanna in the highest.
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.
Hosanna in the highest.

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While she was dancing, skirt twirling around her plump, tiny legs, completely oblivious to the hundreds of people watching her, I felt God tapping me on the shoulder—Like this. I want you to love me like this.

​When the singing ended, her father knelt down and opened his arms. She pummeled into them, and he held her. I felt the Father say, I love you like this.

​That visual defrosted something within me. My heart shifted at that moment. I no longer have to compare God the Father to the rage-filled, abusive man who is my biological parent. I can be like the toddler at Mass. God loves me the same way. He is waiting with arms wide open for me to run to him. And he is waiting for you.

​God wants me to reflect his joy-filled, life-giving love to others, and especially to my own children. I’m finding it much easier to do this now that I understand what it should look like. I must love with abandon—without care or self-consciousness—for I am truly an anointed and beloved daughter of the Father.

This contributor wishes to remain anonymous.