When our son Luke was a wee lad he made the astute observation that “there seems to be a little bit of the mom and a little bit of the dad inside the baby.” This conclusion was unaided by any previous Birds and Bees education, and we were quite amused by his insight.
These days we find ourselves obsessing over who our grandkids take after. We study features when they’re tiny, and personalities as they grow, speculating about who to credit for this trait or that. Perhaps this game undermines the uniqueness of each one-of-a-kind grandchild. And yet we continue to play it to near obsession.
Lately I’ve been thinking about how I—in my sixth decade—am a bit of my mom and a bit of my dad, too. I get these flashes of recognition—a look in the mirror, an admission of habit, a way of family that’s hard to explain.
A funny thing happened a couple of years ago when my sister took one of those DNA ancestry tests. We’d grown up knowing our dad was 100% Norwegian—a point of extreme pride, and impetus for Scandinavian delicacies at every holiday celebration. Mom’s origins were more of a mystery. She was from Indiana, which didn’t really answer the question. Mom’s favorite joke was, “I’ve had a little Norwegian in me 5 times”—referring to her five pregnancies. lol. Which is why we were all a bit shocked when Gina’s ancestry came back 78% Scandinavian. I think Mom was most surprised of all.
My sister looks more Mediterranean than Norske. Thick, dark hair, and skin that turns bronze at the slightest touch of sun. I am her opposite, coloring wise, and personality, too. Where I’m bookish and cautious, Gina lives on the edge, making friends in public places and daring to do things that make us laugh til we cry when she recounts her stories.
My predictable nature comes straight from my father. Books, naps and coffee—in any order. But there’s a little of Mom inside me, too. Love of nature. An instinct for running. Writing stories. And while my fair coloring trends Eastvold there’s something Blue about the shape of my features.
Someday I might have grandkids who do not share my biology. Which is to say, my adopted sons might (if we’re lucky) bless us with kiddos of Colombian blood. I fully anticipate heart-stopping adorableness. And I’m sure we’ll enjoy the typical debates over facial features and social habits, and whether that stubborn streak comes from Mom or Dad. What I do know for certain is those precious littles will be no less mine than our blond-headed Norwegians. Because family is far more than biology.
I too am adopted. I have a Father who gave me roots and grafted me onto his sturdy branches. He made me his child by way of his firstborn. And when people look at me, I hope they see the resemblance.
This is the heritage I long for most. To pass on to my children, and children’s children, a family tree that bears the fruit of all that is Jesus. While it’s true our tree will inevitably include a diversity of ethnicity and political leanings and denominations and geography—at the end of the day, none of that will matter.
And so, today on my 57th birthday, I have one wish. This prayer, crafted by Paul for the family of Jesus… chosen, too, by my husband as our family creed…
Ephesians 3:16-19—
I pray that he may grant you (you…my sons and their wives and my precious little grands… I pray he may grant you…) according to the riches of his glory, to be strengthened with power in your inner being through his Spirit, and that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. I pray that you, being rooted and firmly established in love, may be able to comprehend with all the saints what is the length and width, height and depth of God’s love, and to know Christ’s love that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.
May this be our forever tree.
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