What is a family? Over the past sixty plus years, I’ve had my beliefs about family shaken to the very core. I used to believe family was more than just people related to me by marriage or blood, more than just the basic unit in society that social scientists define, more than just a household, or a common last name. I used to believe family was always there, always ready to support you, to stand behind you, beside you, and with you, no matter what happened. I believed a family shared more than a name or parents or a gene pool. A family would love you unconditionally in spite of you, in spite of any shortcomings or sins; a family was loving and supportive, even when no one else would, when it was not easy to do; a family “had your back.” Blood was always thicker than water. Family sticks with you, even when they disagree with you.
Sure our life hasn’t been easy—no one’s life is. We have had our ups and our downs, our successes and our failures, our agreements and our fights. We are all so different—different values, lifestyles, beliefs, political stances, personalities. Yet that one tie, the one thread holding us all together, was our past, our heritage, our memories, our shared joys and sorrows. That tie has been bent, tangled, nearly unraveled, and stretched, sometimes to the point of tearing in half, but it has still been there to hold us all together.
Until now.
Now that cord, that family tie, is no longer the tie that binds. It has been severed, completely, cruelly, with a finality that breaks my heart. I have reached out, held out my hand and my heart, and have hoped for healing and mending of our broken family, all to no avail. Things hoped for, but never realized—a reunion that will never come, a reconciliation that will never materialize, and a kinship that is now forever lost. When Dad died last December, I heard the death knell of our fractured family and with the loss of Sheila, our fragile family disintegrated, broken like glass, into a thousand little pieces. You have all effectively and thoroughly shunned me and mine. You have made it quite clear that you do not want to be associated with me. You no longer identify with me as family. You have pushed us completely out of your lives, and you want nothing to do with me, with my children, my grandchildren—your nieces and nephews and cousins.
If you meant to hurt me, you have. If your intention was to make me cry, again, you have succeeded. I have spent countless hours praying, reading, lamenting, and remembering, sometimes bitter and angry, but more often than not, mourning for the loss of not just people we loved—Dad, Sheila, Karen, Patrick—but the loss of a shared grief and a desire to heal together.
But you have not destroyed me. For you have helped me realize what true family is, what it really means to stand behind and with and beside someone. I have been knocked to my knees, and it was there that I looked up and saw where my true family lies. My faith has been the catalyst to heal, to understand why I had to be broken to be made whole. God reigns supreme in all things, and He alone knows where all this will lead, and how it will glorify Him. I now know that family is not merely a DNA connection, or made up of individuals who we are related to by name or blood. Family is that wonderful group of people that God has placed in my life, whether through birth or marriage or by chance. Family is there when I need them, providing support and love and help, grieving with me and rejoicing when I rejoice.
And when I think about who will be here in October to help remember and celebrate Sheila’s life, and Dad’s legacy, I realize that every single one of those individuals are part of my family. They are family not because of a choice someone else made, but they are family because of a choice they made.
And God blesses our family, and He will continue to watch over us.
You are welcome to join us, and celebrate, and grieve, and cry, and be, well, family. But should you choose to stay away, know that I do not resent you, or think ill of you, or regret the past.
You were my family once. Perhaps you will join us again.
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