Neither Blood, Nor Paper

Family is such a heavy word.

And I think perhaps the definition changes as we persevere through life.  And the heaviness becomes greater.  And as our perspective changes, so does our personal definition of family.  And the weight increases.  And as our hearts are melded and molded and shaped and broken and crudely stitched together and bleeding and barely surviving,

 the weight can be at the very edge of unbearable.

 

What, exactly, makes a family?

We know that if we are blood related, we are family.  And we may not like it.  And we may not like the people.  And we may want “out”.  And we know that is not an option.

And we know that blood is thicker than water.

We know that family is made of blood and paper.

Blood when birth is given; paper when it is legally binding.  And we celebrate both.  And they are good things.

 And life goes on.

 

We know that when two people marry, they are now family.  Paper.

 

And when they have children, the family is larger.  And when they have children, the family is larger. Blood.

 And generations.

 

We know that when a life is adopted, and the papers are sealed, a family is complete.

And when they have children, the family is larger.  And when they have children, the family is larger. Blood.

 And generations.

We know that trees have branches, yet are only one.

And so is the family.

And it is wide and deep and rooted.

But what if that is not all of what family is.

What if, when Jesus said to the man, “Here are my mother and my brothers! For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother,” he was telling us that there really is more to family than just family?

What if  the people whom God puts in our life really are our family?  What if the meaning of family is more than blood or paper.  What if the fullness in my heart truly is from God?

Don’t you dare take me wrong.  Don’t you dare assume I’m meaning any less about my blood and paper family.  Don’t you dare.

Don’t you dare forget that I know what it is like to have family that is not your own.  I married a man with a son.  I have no blood relation to that child, and I have no legal rights.  There is neither blood nor paper.  Yet, on a certain level, he is mine.  That level would be about chest high.

Right about where my heart is.

God himself put that child in my life to physically explain to me what family is.  It took me a long time to understand.  A long time.  Because of him, and time, and life, and tears, and God making a way, I know what it means to have family that is neither blood nor paper.  neither.  And I am a deeper, soul-searched person because of it.  I am no better than you, I have just had to reach deeper, sometimes.   And the results have been life altering.  Or, maybe the results have been life.

Life that makes family.  Life that is family.

And generations.

 

And then I’m older.  And my children are growing older.  And I understand myself better.  And I know to whom I can relate.  And my heart is softened.  And I am wrecked.

And I am given redemption.  And I am given family.  And that family is neither blood nor paper.  That family is neither blood nor paper.

My heart is so full I believe it may burst.  It hurts with the richness of thick red blood.  Inexplicable.  Ridiculously emotional.  In the core of my very being.  Family the The Almighty Himself has chosen to give me.  So far from being flesh and blood.  But so knit into my soul.

And this family calls me many things.

Mom, FakeMom, Mama, Chief, Sharon, Mama Hilaman, Mrs. Sharon, Mrs. Hilaman.  Many, yet one.  And each one spoken with deep love.  Amazing love.  And I do not deserve it.

But I love it.

And it fills my heart.

And I am healed by it.

And I become whole.

My family is many spokes in the wheel of my life.  And this family makes the wheel of  my life turn. And my life is complete.  And God has given this gift to me.  And I am eternally grateful.

My natural physical family is my personal history.  They have taught me how to love.  How to be family.  How to do family. How to show others what family is.  Where I came from and where my future generations will say they came from.  My roots, my core.  They are me and I am them.

Now mix those people and that history and those generations like a fluid of many colors.  Stir it slow and smooth. It’s becoming more thick and beautiful.  And the colors are swirled and bright and deep. And that is the picture of my life.  Now reach deep down into the feeling part of life, and find the other colors.  The colors that call me when they are sad or scared.  The colors that never had a parent tell them they were proud of them.  The colors that no longer have theirs, so for them, I am her.  The colors that just need to know that someone older loves them and cares about them.  The colors that need to be taught, and listen with their heart.  Because they are hungry and thirsty and eager.  The colors who so graciously allow me to be a small part of their lives.  Who mix so strikingly beautiful with the generations of colors who made me.  Deep colors. Bright and deep colors.  You can see each one, yet they are all blended. And they move together, yet often never touch.  This is the color of life.  And mine is beautiful.

Mine is beautiful.  And it makes me. And it is me. And my heart is full.