The first time I ever got my heart broken I was three years old. I don't remember it, but I have heard the story numerous times, so I feel like I remember it. Does that make sense? My mom had taken my brother and me to the store, and this was back in the early 70's when it was acceptable to leave your kids in the car while you went in to the store, without fearing that they would be kidnapped and murdered. My brother told me then that he came from Mommy's tummy and I did NOT. Mom said I came in the store bawling, loudly crying about what he had said. She simply paid for her groceries, took me home and showed me my baby book. There in the front cover, were some papers they had taped inside. Certificate of Adoption. It was true. I was not their daughter by blood. I think that learning the truth at that young age was probably the best thing to happen, because it just always WAS.
Growing up I always felt different. I never really fit in with my family. Oh, I guess I looked enough like my dad that people didn't always believe that I was adopted. But, I was so different inside. I have quirks, I hate for my food to touch, I color coordinate my closet, I live in organized chaos. I have a strange sense of humor that my family finds weird. I am left handed which made it nearly impossible to teach me to do so many things, like knitting, tying my shoes, shooting guns. I had to adapt and do many things right handed. I was allergic to milk. Life wasn't always easy growing up. We were poor, and really struggled at times to have enough food to eat. There were times we were hungry, and the lunch served at school was the best meal we had all day. I lived on a farm, and ate lots of eggs, and learned to fish, clean the fish and cook them myself, so that summer days when I was home by myself, I could take care of myself as well.
I have always been a writer. When I was a little girl I would write these crazy stories. I was born with an over active imagination, and every sound was more than I could handle. But I always had this idea in the back of my head, that, being adopted meant that I had a family out there. I used to fantasize about it, like I was a kidnapped princess, and somewhere there was a family desperately searching for me, and one day they would show up on my door step and take me to this wonderful fantastic home, and I would live happily ever after. I would think about my poor birth mother, and how she must have been forced to give me up, and that she cried every day wondering where her sweet daughter was. I used to dream of finding her and having this fantastic, happily ever after fairy tale ending.
Looking in the mirror was the hardest. Who am I? Who do I look like? I have dimples, that no one else in my family has. Where did those come from? I have hazel eyes, everyone else has blue eyes, or brown eyes. I have crazy unmanageable hair, everyone else has straight hair. As I grew older, those questions got harder. Where did these huge feet come from? Doctor visits were impossible. They hand you these forms asking for family history, and I have to just leave them blank. Write on there "adopted, no family history available." I would look at my adoption papers, and read them over and over. There was one line in there that used to tear me up inside every time. "Infant Jiner, a Minor and Illegitimate Child." Jiner. That was who I was. Not Beckie Block, but Infant Jiner! But the other part, Illegitimate Child. As I got older, I knew what those words meant. And one boy in grade school told me very openly, with one harsh word, exactly what that word meant. My parents had always told me I was chosen, special. Their gift from God, because they weren't able to have a girl. But by the time I was in my teenage years, I realized that what I was, really, was somebody's mistake. There was no one crying for me. Someone messed up, I was the product of that mess up and they gave me away because they didn't want me. That became the focus of my thoughts. I didn't matter. I was rejected.
When I turned 21 I petitioned the court to get my adoption records. I found my birth mother, and got a lot of answers to my questions. But that is another story, for another day. The feelings of rejection got worse as the years went by. I do not know who my father is. I found out that a lot of my odd quirks come from my mother. The ones that do not, I can only assume come from the man who did his part in creating me. Especially the big feet. I joke that since I have such big feet, and so do my children, and the wild unmanageable hair, that my father must be Sasquatch! I found a photo on the computer of a Sasquatch, and keep it on my phone, and tell the kids that is their grandpa! I find humor in the situation now. But the pain still exists. Why am I here? Why couldn't I have been born in to a family the regular way? What is wrong with me that the one person who should have loved me more than anyone, cast me away like an old sock.
A guy at my church told me one day that the reason I am here, is because God needed me here. Here on the earth and HERE in this family. He said that my birth mother was never supposed to keep me, that she was simply the vessel that God used to get me to earth. Similar to how God used Mary to get Jesus here. (Not claiming to be anything like Jesus, just making an analogy). I originally wasn't even supposed to be in the Block family, there was another family on the list that was supposed to get me. But God worked that situation around as well, so that I came home Beckie Block. Sometimes I wonder as well, what my life would have been like if I had gone to that family. You know, each person is two parts, part Nature, and part Nurture. My nature would be the same, but my nurture would be different because I would have been raised in different circumstances. But then I wouldn't be Beckie. I would have a different name. And maybe not a cool one that is spelled different enough that it drives people crazy! And I would not be here, in this place in time, with the people in my life that are here, with my kids, and my church family. Its not that I am dis-satisfied with my life, its just that I feel like I don't fit in. I am still so different. You look in the mirror, and you know exactly where each trait comes from. Great Uncle Buford's ears, Aunt Bertha's eyes, Grandma's nose, etc. You see the quirks and you know where those come from too. Sometimes I feel like a complete stranger, in my own family. I look around at people, and wonder if perhaps they are relatives. When I found my birth mother, I also discovered that my first husband was a not overly distant cousin. And that is yet another story. Being adopted, for me, has been painful, and a life full of questions. I can't say I regret it, because I had a better life than I probably would have had otherwise. And my life now is very blessed. I am who I am. I am who God created me to be. God used two people to give me life, but He always planned for me to be here. Right here where I am. He knew me before I was born. He gave me the quirks that drive me and others crazy. I will never know who my father is, but I know who my FATHER is. I was adopted in to the Block family, which was good. But I have also been adopted in to the Family of God, which is wonderful!
Sometimes I think that I don't matter. I get hung up on being rejected, instead of realizing that, while I was unwanted in one family, that another family considered me their blessing, their gift from God. I just wanted to be normal, with a normal story, but God created me to be different, and have a different story. And He gave me a talent to write, to use it to help people who may have gone through the same things I have, and to use my words to glorify Him. So I need to embrace my different-ness. I need to love my crazy hair, big feet, can't let my food touch, bacon obsessed self. I am here for a purpose, and I am who I am. And for right now, that is good enough for me.
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