2019. You Wild Ride.

Dear 2019,

You started with my biggest dreams and my worst fears realized. All within 24 hours. Over January 4th and 5th. Right from the start. I spent the year trying to navigate a new reality. One I was never expecting. 

A boy, now a man, I went to high school with messaged me on January 4th asking how I knew someone. That someone was the wife of a biological grandfather I’ve never met. It turned out that boy, now man, was my first cousin. I went to high school with a first cousin. We graduated together. I grew up not knowing my biological father. One of my biggest fears was falling in love with a brother and not knowing it. Realizing in my 30s that I could have fallen in love with my first cousin wasn’t any better. Except that I didn’t. I’m happy/elated/relieved to report that I never crushed on this boy, now man, whom I found out at the beginning of 2019 was my first cousin. Phew. 

And this now-man’s dad was my half uncle. We, my new uncle and I, took a DNA test in my living room later in January to prove we were related. I haven’t finished sorting through how strange that is. That my family lines are so royally effed-up that a woman in her mid 30s and a man in his 60s have to take a DNA test in the said woman’s living room to figure out if they belong to the same family tree. 

Positive, yo. Undeniable. We are related. This man is my biological father’s half brother. His father is my paternal biological grandfather. And I have never met this biological grandfather.

My biological father grew up not knowing his biological father. A few years ago, my paternal grandfather’s family contacted me through my blog hoping that they had finally found a link to my biological father. They had. And my biological father met HIS biological father in that same year. I thought that was the end of it. I thought it was a happy ending. 

But 2019 happened. After my new cousin reached out to me, I reached out to my biological father letting him know he had an older half brother. I was met with rejection and denial. My biological grandfather, for whatever reason, didn’t want anything to do with his eldest son. Perhaps he wanted nothing to do with him because he failed to mention him and his first wife to his current wife and family. He has had three families, that I know of. My new uncle from his first wife, my father from his second wife, and a whole lifetime of family from his third wife - whom he has been with for a long time. 

After my paternal biological family found me and my father a few years ago, it seemed so joyous, like they couldn’t wait to meet us. Well.... I have heard nothing from them since they met my father. That feels shitty by itself. And then the fact that I discovered there is a whole other line I didn’t know existed, and that my biological grandfather wants nothing to do with him.... that makes me angry. I’ve spent 2019 working on that anger. And if I’m being honest, that deep sorrow.

I know what it’s like to not have all of the pieces of my family. It’s hard. The search becomes an obsession. I don’t know how to describe the disappointment that anyone would deny someone their family. I have longed for these people. I have dreamt of them. And they’re over here saying, “Too bad. We have each other; we don’t need you.” 2019 has been coming to terms with all of this. 

But that’s not all.

When I called my biological father on January 4th to let him know he had an older half brother, he accidentally let me know I had an older half sister. I cannot tell you how much I have fixated throughout the course of my life that I might have some biological siblings. I have step-siblings that I love, but I always felt there was something different about being linked to a sibling by blood. A sister.

A SISTER!

I had a biological connection to a sibling. Through the magic of Facebook, I found her. Literally overnight. And in less than 24 hours, many of my hopes were dashed. I have a biological half sister, and I connected with her, but I quickly realized that any kind of relationship with her would be really, REALLY complicated. 

And then the anger seeped in even more. And I confirmed how much more hurtful withholding can be. I have always trusted my biological father. I gave him grace where I thought he deserved it. I gave him grace everywhere. But he had known that I had a sister for a long time. Years. And he didn’t tell me. And because of the nature of his short-term memory, I have asked him repeatedly. And he always said no. Until this year. I don’t know how to trust someone who withholds the thing I desire most. 

And then...

In July my paternal grandmother died. She choked on an apple. An effing apple. I’ve never met any of her family. Only her son, my father. I have so desperately wanted to meet all of them, but her death created a feud. It’s hard when your one connection to a whole branch of your family tree lives in conflict with the family. I don’t know if I will ever meet the rest of my biological father’s maternal side. I have an aunt. My paternal grandmother still has living siblings. I have 13 cousins on my biological father’s paternal side. 14 with my new cousin, whom that line refuses to acknowledge. 

2019 brought so many lessons that I might spend my whole life figuring out. But I hope that 2020 might bring more connection. Being that my familial connections are so fragile on my father’s side, I’m trying to make peace with what might not ever be. I also understand how fragile life is. How quickly time can run out. I don’t want it to run out. But I also can’t help who is ready and who cannot accept that I am here. And I am related. That I am family, no matter how unexpected. 

2020 will be a year of radical love and acceptance. For myself. There can be no more biological family surprises. Unless my paternal biological grandfather has more children out there, or my biological father the same. I lived in 2017 and 18 feeling like I had a happy ending. I entered 2019 realizing nothing is for certain. 

But that’s just it. I can’t control anyone else to make their love or acceptance certain.

But I have made my own spectacular family. And I am so full of love for these daughters that are mine. These biological connections. These children I will never deny and always love to the utmost. This is my calling. This is my family. And 2019 has also taught me how to lean into that. Lean into them. 

My loves. Forever and ever. 

2020.

I’m glad to see you. We made it. Through so many losses. Through so much love. 

Love.

I choose love.

Everyday. In every way. Over and over and over again. 2019 taught me how to do so more fully. The hardest year of my life. Hands down. 

The best year of my life just the same.

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Things I want to Remember

December 24, 2019
Cora wanted to wander around the Holdenville Cemetery to find name inspiration for her writing. We did. And Magnolia wanted to find the person who had the earliest birthday. 1820s, so far. That’s what we’re back to. I loved wandering through the names and stories with them. And there among all of the names were names of people we know and love. Some we never got to love in life, but we so appreciate that we are here because they were here.

December 27, 2019
The fog was so thick as we drove from Oklahoma City to Dalhart, TX. White knuckle driving. Low visibility. Terrible. And intermittent rain. I hated it. And I couldn’t get Alisa’s accident out of my head. We were rolling on state highways through Texas and Oklahoma. So many intersections have two way stops. The low visibility at those intersections almost made me want to cry. My eyes darted back and forth so many times making sure the intersection was clear. We were so cautious. So many little prayers along the way. And waiting for us in Dalhart were Loved Ones. Meeting little Oliver, who turns 1 tomorrow, actually TODAY - it’s after midnight - was a highlight. And late night conversations with the brothers-in-law were so wonderful and long overdue. Five hours of fog and rain and staring at the temperature to make sure it was staying above freezing... 36 was the lowest dip. All worth it for the togetherness we experienced this evening.

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Stepping Into the Light

Yesterday was the funeral of a friend who died suddenly in a car accident earlier in the week.

Her death was absolutely unexpected. Unexpected deaths have an extra layer - dealing with the shock. It requires an extra amount of time to reason with your mind that a person you love isn't there because you hadn't ever considered that they wouldn't be. Not now, anyway. Not yet. 

Alisa and I were newer friends. I met her at a mutual friend's fortieth birthday party. We knew so many of the same people as part of the Mormon Church, yet we had never met one another, even with all of my time living in Oklahoma before the most recent move back. We covered a lot of ground that night: children, birth, divorce, marriage, religion, etc. Over the last year and some change, we stayed connected on social media, through texts and, within the last couple of months, some in-person conversations and events together. I valued our blossoming friendship.

Her life, her very being, exuded love and light. I am terrible at small talk, so it was wonderful to have someone with whom I could skip most of that and dive straight into vulnerability. She asked good questions and kept an open mind and heart for the answers that might come. The point at which I met her was a time of immense learning and growth for her. A year before I met her, the familiarity of her life had been interrupted. She was on her own journey of discovery. Meeting her on that path was inspiring to me. Despite the difficulties she faced, and any fear of the unknown in what lay ahead for her (this path was terribly difficult sometimes), she had a warmth that was enveloping. And I think that warmth and love and light became bigger and brighter and warmer with each faithful step she took.

Last month, Alisa and I attended a program sponsored by the Jewish Federation of Oklahoma City. Rabbi Steve Leder was there discussing his book More Beautiful Than Before: How Suffering Transforms us. I got two tickets last minute from another friend. When thinking about who I should take with me, Alisa came to mind. I was glad she was available. She came to my house, and we drove to the event together. The program was a profound look at pain, suffering, and grief. We were both writing away taking notes. Afterward we sat in the theatre and talked, then continued talking on the ride home, and didn't stop talking for quite some time after I pulled into my driveway. 

A new angle on grief that we both appreciated is the idea that grief is nonlinear. Leder said that every once in a while we are hit with a rogue wave of grief. And when that wave comes, it's best to lay down and float with it. Trying to stand up against it will only send you crashing and rolling; it will topple you. Grief doesn't follow a straight line. It can feel less enshrouding over time, but it doesn't mean it won't come back into your company and desperately require your attention from time to time. There is no timeline. Leder made a distinction about something those who are grieving often hear. He said it is a lie to say "It won't always hurt so much." But a more accurate telling of grief is that "It won't always hurt so often." 

Leder said much about light that night as well. 

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. 

He emphasized through. We walk through the valley of the shadow of death. We don't stay there. And a shadow is always evidence of light. A shadow cannot exist without light. At some point, as we keep moving, we will emerge back into light. The light that was there the whole time. Blocked by a valley. Blocked by our suffering, our sorrow. Our grief. 

I was thinking about light yesterday as so many came to love and celebrate and grieve together. I left the church at dusk and made it back into my home in darkness. The shortest day of the year. The week of Alisa's death has been a descent through emotional and literal darkness as we crept toward winter solstice. I have developed a fondness for that day. Developed is the key word. I used to be so resistant toward extended darkness. I love the sun; I feel the effects of less light. And in that sensitivity to both darkness and light, I made a pact. "Okay, Darkness, you can have your day, but tomorrow we start moving back toward the light." 

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