I walked into the “Grief” session determined.
“I am NOT going to cry.”
I was a little bit grumpy, a lot tired and was done. “I don’t care what they talk about, I’ve grieved what I’ve needed to grieve. I’m done.”
But then our speaker said something along the lines of:
You know you have fully grieved something when you can openly talk about it. If you can’t, then you haven’t grieved it.
My failed engagement? I’m an open book.
My parents’ failed marriage and the practically non-existent relationship I have with my dad? Not so much.
That very day I was doing a get-to-know-you talk with Shannon, and when I told her my parents were separated, about to divorce and she told me she was sorry, I blew it off with an “Eh, it was a long time coming.”
Until our speaker made that statement, I always thought I was pretty strong since I never really cried when my parents split, or could give an annoyed sigh, roll my eyes or just tune out when either my siblings or mom brought it up. Don’t get me wrong, I remember a time when I would cry, but they were still together. When it was over, I was tired of the drama of it and said I was glad it was over. When it was over I didn’t speak to my father for two years. But I was “fine” with it and annoyed when he resurfaced. I’ve joked with friends about the length of time I’ve spent on the phone with him since we started talking again two years ago. The longest phone conversation we have had was a little more than four minutes, I think. My way of dealing with this has been to laugh it off, but the following statement is no laughing matter: I have told him I love you and he has said it back, but most of the time I wonder if what either of us has said is true.
Because of this, I fully believe that I have long had a spirit of fear of rejection and abandonment. That week, I constantly feared that people on my squad wouldn’t like me. Or if they did, eventually they’d bail on the relationship. My best friend Laura and my sister, in particular, have had to reassure me on more than one occasion that they are not going anywhere (and I’m grateful that they don’t tire of doing it!) For the past two years I thought this was connected to the demise of the relationship with my ex-fiance, but if I had grieved it (after a year of therapy) and moved on, why did I STILL have this fear at training camp? I learned that night that it was because of what I couldn’t talk about:
I felt like my father abandoned me and was afraid everyone, including my heavenly father, would too.
So at the end of the talk, we were told that if we needed to grieve something to stand. My determination to not let this talk affect me went out the window. Exasperated, I stood up and my squad leader, Caroline , prayed for me. We were instructed to let the baggage we had held on to go. My baggage was labeled “Dad.”
And in my head, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let it go. I was crying uncontrollably and I couldn’t let it go. When Caroline asked why I couldn’t, I told her I was scared and when she asked why I said, “This is all I have left of him.” I didn’t realize until that moment that I felt the only thing I had of my father were wounds and hurts.
She started to pray HARD for me, like nobody has ever prayed for me before (that I know of.)
And here comes the you’re-probably-going-to-think-I’m-crazy-but-it’s-OK-because-I-surrendered-my-people-pleasing-ways-to-God-at-camp part: I FELT God move through my body.
Here’s the back story: a couple of months ago I met with a good friend/prayer partner of mine and she told me about how she’d felt a certain way in her body while someone was praying for her. She was convinced it was the Holy Spirit. Partly because of my cynicism and partly because I wanted to feel God in such a way that I KNEW he was close by and not this distant god I’d made Him out to be, I BEGGED to feel Him in that specific way. I’d asked God to make me feel an unexplainable heat in my body and sweat for no reason. I know, it’s weird, but that’s what I asked for.
And I got it. 
In that moment, as I let go of my earthly father, or what I thought I had left of him, my heavenly father made himself known to me in the specific way I’d asked him to. On that night, He wasn’t too busy tending to others who were hurting more than I was (as I always thought before). He made time to tend to me because He wanted me to know He was there even if I had made what could be seen as a silly request.
It was as if he was giving his daughter, me–Marissa Villa, the shiny new bike I didn’t necessarily need, but wanted, just to see me smile and to let me know that I will never be abandoned.
