Families are not as clear-cut as they once were.
A family used to be made up of a mother and a father who were married to each other and had a kid or two. There were grandparents on both sides, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews and everyone was biologically related (except of course the married people who were legally related).
But now there are more step-people than ever. Divorces tear families apart and remarriages piece together the remnants of previous families.
Adoption is becoming more and more common (thank You, Lord) so there are fewer and fewer children sharing genetic material with their parents.
I know a number of adoptive families and I freakin’ live in my own blended family. And both scenarios come with their own set of excruciating challenges as family members adapt to their new configuration.
But perhaps the most devastating challenge from this new breed of families is the pushback that comes from those closest to them. Where there should be support, there is distance. Where there should be acceptance, there is (more) rejection. And I’m sorry to say, this is more common than I had originally thought.
I met a friend for lunch at Chipotle the other day. She’s been married a year or two and has had her heart set on adoption for as long as she can remember. (Again, thank You, Lord, for these people.)
We were discussing the idea of the couple adopting one day when she hit me with, “Oh, and get this: My in-laws have told us on no uncertain terms that if we adopt, that child will not be their grandchild.”
I nearly choked.
After a few throat-clearing coughs and a sip of Diet Coke, I countered, “Come on, they did not say that. Seriously. There is no way.”
“Yep,” she said, defiantly stabbing at her burrito bowl. “Those exact words.” She took another bite at stared at me with a mixture of anger, hurt and resignation.
I was aghast. “What? Do they have too many grandkids? Oh no, wait. They don’t have any. They must have too much love in their lives. You know, no more room in the inn,” I snarled in disgust.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. So THAT’S going to be interesting.”
I just couldn’t get over it. I’m STILL not over it.
Caroline was almost four when Brad and I got married. Brad’s sister’s family has an adopted son a few months younger than she is and they’ve been cousins for as long as they can remember. Two kids whose paths would have never crossed if not for the miracle of adoption and the adventure of remarriage.
Caroline and I were in the car a couple years ago and the subject of adoption came up. We were mid-conversation and I said, “Well, you know, like Noah and Aunt Ashley…”
Caroline’s head snapped up. “What? What do you mean?”
I continued, “You know, like when Aunt Ashley and Uncle Matthew adopted Noah when he was a baby…”
“WAIT…” I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were big as saucers and her hands were up as if trying to stop time. “You mean, Aunt Ashley isn’t Noah’s REAL MOM?!”
I cringed at the ‘real’ part, but let it slide because I knew what she meant. “Uh, no, honey. He’s adopted.”
“MOM! Why didn’t you tell me?!” She was horrified that I had kept something so important from her.
But here’s the best part of this story: Noah is biracial. He’s got skin the color of milk chocolate, big brown eyes and dark curly hair. Ashley is fair-skinned, with blond hair and blue eyes.
I stifled a giggle and said, “Well, babe … I’m sorry, I didn’t think I HAD to.”
But nobody told her. Nobody told her they weren’t really cousins. Nobody told them they weren’t really in the same family.
And you know what? Nobody told our teenage nephews that Caroline wasn’t really their cousin so didn’t have to carry her around on their backs or play with her on the trampoline.
Nobody told Beau, Sydney and Caroline they’re not really siblings so they have to always put ‘step’ in front of ‘brother’ or ‘sister’ (which they don’t). Nobody told them that since they don’t share genetic material that they’re not really family.
I wish no one had told me that either. But unfortunately, I had one well-meaning friend tell me early in my marriage that we weren’t REALLY a family of five.
Huh? What were we then? A bed and breakfast? A foster home? A youth hostel?
Maybe she was trying to take off some of the pressure that comes from blending a family. But instead she invalidated everything I was trying to build, told me that it wasn’t real and never would be. I was crushed.
But the longer I do this blended family business, the more certain I am that she was wrong. Well-intentioned, but wrong.
I couple weekends ago I had buddy from college come into town. We had her family over for burgers and swimming. They have an eight-year-old biological son and a five-year-old little girl they adopted from China when she was two.
The grownups chatted while the kids swam. And their son picked and their daughter squealed in protest, like I had seen Beau and Sydney do a million times when they were younger. Nobody told them they weren’t really siblings so they didn’t have to act like it.
We took a picture of all five kids before they left. My 13-year-old stepdaughter held the five-year-old adopted girl in her lap. My 15-year-old stepson sat down with my 9-year-old biological daughter and my friend’s eight-year-old biological son.
Only two of the five kids in that picture were related by blood, eight different biological parents represented in those faces. And yet it was all kids from just two families. Hell, if someone didn’t know any better with all the steps and adopteds, they could have all been in the SAME family.
You know what? Jesus was not concerned with the legalities and formalities of blood relations when it came to families. He referred to His disciples as brothers. And check Him out in Luke 8:
Now Jesus’ mother and brothers came to see Him, but they were not able to get near Him because of the crowd. Someone told Him, “Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to see You.”
He replied, “My mother and brothers are those who hear God’s word and put it into practice” (vv. 19-21).
Did He not love them anymore? Of course He did. But the Kingdom of God had come. And in that Kingdom, believers are all in the same family. Blood relation gets no preference.
This was a hard pill for the Jews to swallow. For generations, they had pointed back to their genetic connection to Abraham as their guarantee of salvation. Suddenly Jesus told them their passport to heaven was null and void without the stamp of His blood.
In John 8, He blows their minds (and pisses them off):
To the Jews who had believed him, Jesus said, “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”
They answered him, “We are Abraham’s descendants and have never been slaves of anyone. How can you say that we shall be set free?”
Jesus replied, “… I know that you are Abraham’s descendants. Yet you are looking for a way to kill Me, because you have no room for My word. I am telling you what I have seen in the Father’s presence, and you are doing what you have heard from your father.”
“Abraham is our father,” they answered.
“If you were Abraham’s children,” said Jesus, “then you would do what Abraham did. As it is, you are looking for a way to kill Me, a man who has told you the truth that I heard from God. Abraham did not do such things. You are doing the works of your own father.”
“We are not illegitimate children,” they protested. “The only Father we have is God Himself.”
Jesus said to them, “If God were your Father, you would love Me, for I have come here from God. … Whoever belongs to God hears what God says. The reason you do not hear is that you do not belong to God.” (vv. 31-33, 37-40, 42, 47).
Their blood rights as children of God had been trumped by faith and grace. Children of God were suddenly ALL who believe, whether they were genetically in the family or not.
Even as Jesus is dying on the cross, He’s piecing together families of people with no genetic connection.
He’s suffocating under the weight of His own body, in more physical pain than I can even get my head around from all His massive internal and external injuries.
When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to her, “Woman, here is your son,” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that time on, this disciple took her into his home (John 19:26-27).
According to the teachings of Jesus Himself, the only blood that matters is His. His holy blood spilled for us for us to secure the salvation for all who believe, Jew and Gentile alike.
Belonging. Acceptance. Family.
From what I can tell, the occurrence of steps and adopteds is only going to rise from here. Families continue to fall apart and as part of Jesus’ beautiful plan of redemption, He keeps putting pieces of different broken families together and making new families. Making broken things new. Kinda one of His things.
When Jesus brought the Kingdom, He created one family of believers.
And I don’t want to just generally support that aspect of the Kingdom with OTHER people OUT THERE. I want to bring the Kingdom in my own home. And in my own heart.
Contribute to those fundraising sites for families trying to bring their adopted children home. If God leads you to do so, consider bringing an orphan into your own home or serving as a foster parent. Celebrate blended families and the redemption they’re trying to live every day. Shower them with love and support, parents AND children. They’ve all got beautiful, but difficult roads ahead.
As we seek to make the best of this fallen world we live in, let’s raise our understanding of ‘family’ to a biblical level. Jesus said we’re family, whether we’re related or not.
And I believe Him.
