Hello everyone, Dave here. I’m the slightly younger half of this blog and I wanted to share more of my story with you.
I was taken away from my bloodline at birth, court-ordered to be safely removed from their custody after 24 hours out from the womb. Six days later I was placed in a foster home. When I was adopted, I was brought into a family filled with love and hope (and the social worker said “he’s one of those babies with the really big heads”)! My parents had faith in Christ and I was accepted into the family just like the others who were born into it. My sister was adopted a few months later and we were a family of four! The Lord really knew what he was doing when he placed us all together, the miracles that he has performed in our lives are unquestionable. I had a dad and a mom that loved me. I had a sister that loved me. I had grandparents, both sets of them who were married for more than 50 years each, that loved me! What a rarity! On the inside though, there was something that wasn’t settled. All that I had didn’t answer my questions…it wasn’t enough.
When I was growing up — from 5 years old and onward — I always knew that there was this other part of me that was out there. My parents had always told me that I was adopted and that I had a brother! “How come I can’t go see him?”, I wondered. “It’s not that simple, son.” My brother existed in this world, and only a few states from where I lived. “One day I will get a chance to meet him”, I thought. Years went by and we passed pictures along to each other through our parents, and we even exchanged Christmas cards and presents (I don’t have that Patriots hat anymore though, thank-you-very-much). One day when I was 16 I had the nerve to pick up the phone and call him, just to hear his voice. But, that just wasn’t enough.
Fast forward to our early 30s. As we both had chronicled in an earlier post, we finally had our chance to meet. We had an amazing time together for that week, and then again the following year (and thankfully, each year thereafter). Getting the chance to meet and to get to know my brother and his family has changed me forever. It has changed me in ways that I am still trying to wrap my head around. The hole in me was filling in, but it still wasn’t enough.
James and I were curious for more. We found out the names of our biological mother and father through James’ parents. After a quick search online, I had their birthdates and phone numbers right in front of me on the screen. I even had our grandfather’s name (the same as our father’s), age, and phone number. It was waaaaaay too easy to get that information. I called the number for my grandfather and told him that I was his grandson. It felt like something out of Maury Povich…”you are 100% the grandfather of this child!” that went through my head. We had a conversation, that led to other conversations, and we decided maybe one day we could all meet. That still wasn’t enough.
Fast forward again a few months. James and I were in the car, driving toward our grandfather’s house. Our blood! It WAS happening and I was NOT turning the car around now (although I did pass the house, just to be sure everyone was there before we arrived). What would they look like? How would they sound? Most people can look in the mirror and see a reflection that’s similar to their parents and siblings. You typically know why you look the way that you do or sound the way that you do (or you know why you are really weird…you know who you are). For me and James, we didn’t know any of these things (except, of course, for the quirky weird things that we learned from our own families). I ALWAYS wondered why I looked the way that I did. As kids, James and I looked a lot alike, so to me there was no doubt we were related. As I matured into my teen years I looked into that mirror and saw more than me…I saw him…same colored eyes…same brown hair…similar height. I could start to put the puzzle together, but still it wasn’t enough.
When we met our biological father, there was no question where I came from. I knew it instantly. Same build, hairline, facial features. Then we met our father’s parents, our grandparents. Then our Aunt Joyce. All at once with James (who I wasn’t sure I would ever meet), we were talking to our grandparents, both of whom didn’t really know I was ever born. We had pizza. We talked about the past. We talked about who we were, where we went to school, if we were married. They wanted to know more, so did we. But when we were there, and as I stood next to my brother, there was no question we were all related. We crossed our arms in similar situations, we stood exactly the same way when speaking to other people, the mannerisms in our faces were the same. Everyone’s eyes were blue. Everyone. None of us grew up knowing each other, so how could that be? It wasn’t the way we were raised, it was in our blood! For the first time it all started to click. The people that give birth to you shape the way you look, speak, touch, stand, and even think. They may not have been our parents (and James and I will both tell you that we are EXTREMELY blessed to have the families we do), and they may not have raised us, but they did, by the grace of God, give birth to us. The blood. It’s in the blood.
For most of my life, I felt that my bloodline had kept me from truly belonging in my adopted family, even though I knew that’s where I belonged. It took me many years to give the whole situation over to the Lord and that’s when He revealed it to me…”My son, it’s in the blood”. Jesus’ blood sacrifice for me allowed me to be adopted into His family, once and for all. No matter how lonely I felt, or how lonely my sister and brother may have felt over the years from not knowing who we truly were, that blood was shed for all of us. We were all adopted into one Family on that day. I am thankful for the fact that I was adopted, and I am thankful for my blood, as it makes me who I am.
Now that…that is enough.
Dave
Splintered Kernels 