He asked me where I would want the conversation to be–by his table or just by the sofa. I moved a little to tell him that I wanted to remain in the sofa, and so he grabbed a pillow and sat beside me.
He began by asking me how life was, I told him it was fine, and that this conversation is all that was missing. Words then started to come out of my mouth, telling him of my current situation, making him picture the crisis I’m currently having. Once or twice he nodded, and whenever he did I would look at him, then continue on with my story.
When I was over, he began talking. He comforted me with words I never heard before. He made me feel light by telling me that I am special, and that talking to him about those things that day was a really brave and bold move. He continued further making me feel better, and assured me that there’s nothing wrong with me.
When we had nothing more to talk about, he asked, in a joking manner, how I was and the girl he always saw me with. I laughed real hard because of all things, this was the last thing I wanted to talk about. But I told him the story, the one he never heard before, and I could tell by his smile that he’s happy about it.
When we ended, I gave him a smiling face and thanked him for being there for me. We shook hands and exchanged wide smiles–his wide smile I could never forget, he is well-known for that. When our hands parted he asked me for one thing, one thing he never asked me before, and one thing I never gave him before. “Pa-hug?” was his request, and with that we opened arms and received one another in each other’s embrace. We locked arms and bodies, and the feeling was just awesome, inexplicable to be very exact. We never hugged before, and my eyes almost welled up in tears. It was a new feeling, a refreshing one! For that was the first time father hugged me, and I hugged him back. It felt like somebody else was hugging me, somebody else was taking me in his arms, and beyond what Father has given me, I know somebody else out there has received me in His arms, wholeheartedly.
But the Father is not my real father; he’s a priest, and I went to confession.
(Many thanks to Fr. Mon Borja, SDB, for that wonderful confession I had yesterday! I love you, fadz!)