I don't remember being held as a child.

To briefly remind folks, I didn't know my biological father. My biological mother, who I lived with until I was seven, was incredibly mentally ill. And while I do remember some abuse, mostly what I remember is absence. Neglect. Just not being there.

I have no memories of playing with my mom or laughing with her. I do remember hiding from her, calling the police on her, walking all over the city to pay bills or get food from food pantries. But love and affection? Nada.

I have to imagine this is a large part of why faith and a belief in God has always been core and central to who I am. In those first seven years, we went to Catholic Mass, preschool, and kindergarten. I was introduced to the idea of God's presence pretty early on.

By the time I made some sort of conscious decision to have Jesus enter my heart, I was about twelve years old, and mostly what I wanted was Jesus to be my friend. By this point I was in my fourth home and didn't have any friends. The idea that Jesus could have that role of companionship was obviously pretty alluring.

When I was seven and moved in with my first foster family, and then relatives, and then at ten when I moved in with the Parrott family, I was mostly too old to be held. I remember during my second baptism at the Lutheran church before my heart surgery, the pastor made a joke that he usually holds the children he's about to baptize, but that was untenable—even for a scrawny, oxygen-deprived seven-year-old.

To be fair, I do remember my mom—my adopted mom—making intentional efforts to hold me when I moved in with the Parrott family. I have memories of that, and it was important, and I cherish it. And also, those memories don't start until ten years into my life. Which sucks.

I've been reading quite a few books on spiritual formation recently. Dallas Willard, Henri Nouwen, and others. And there is a constant, frequent refrain in this tradition that if you want to be formed into the image of Christ, you have to spend time in silence and solitude.

It is a necessity. You cannot grow and not spend time in silence and solitude. Nouwen calls silence "the royal road to spiritual formation. Without silence, the spoken word can never bear fruit. Only through silence can the word descend from the mind into the heart."

The research on meditation broadly backs this up—it helps with focus, creativity, clarity, inner peace. But honestly, those benefits aren't what pulled me back in. What pulled me back in is that something in my soul feels malnourished, and no amount of productivity optimization is going to address it.

So, okay, I get it. I need to put time for silence and solitude into my daily calendar.

There was a season in my life where this came easier. I used to be pretty darn good at it. But I think having kids sort of blasted that out of the water. It's time to put those practices back into place.

So like the good digital citizen that I am, I downloaded Insight Timer, tried a couple of the guided meditations, was annoyed by how often they talked, and just used the basic bell function. I did a mix of basic breathing and mindfulness meditation and then some centering prayer, focusing on the Jesus prayer: Christ, have mercy on me.

And the first image that came to mind was of Christ embracing me. Holding me.

And God damn it, even as I write these words, the emotion wells up.

The idea of being held by a loving parent. And depending on my mood, depending on what aches, there are reasons why sometimes a father-figure God feels more helpful and healing—the dad I never had in those first ten years, the masculine tenderness I wasn't given. And there are other days when a mother-figure God is what I need—the nurturing, unconditional, fierce-and-soft love of a mother who was never able to give it. I don't think God minds which one I need on any given day.

But regardless—being held by a benevolent parent who has affection for me and does not care that I'm 38 years old and overweight and a little unwieldy. Who can hold me without any problems.

That brings up all the feelings.

I'd like to say it's healing. But I'm not even sure that's the right word yet. To be entirely honest, I'm writing this in part to avoid the time I've marked on my calendar today for more silence, solitude, meditation, and prayer.

But I think it is at least the beginning of a healing process. To begin to be held and embraced by a heavenly parent who will not disappoint me, who's not going to hit me or neglect me or abandon me.

I'm not going to try to convince you, dear reader, to go on the same journey. I can barely convince myself, and I have read about every piece of literature on this topic that I can find. I know the benefits. And yet there's still so much resistance.

But I want to keep going on this journey with the hope that, sure, it will put me on the path of spiritual formation into Christlikeness. Sure, there will even be some practical productivity and focus benefits.

But ultimately, it will remind me that I am loved.