Family Resemblances

Sometimes I forget what my family looks like. I married into a family which has deep Scandinavian roots, my father-in-law having been born in Sweden. Throughout his life, my father-in-law has been connected with a church founded by Swedish immigrants.  A brief reading through any of these church’s bulletins bears witness to the ongoing ties between congregation and homeland, filled as they are with names like Carlson, Johnson, Olson, Swenson, Bergstrom, Lindstrom, and Sandberg. The first time I visited my future husband’s church, I felt as though every blond head turned and every blue eye fell suspiciously upon my brown hair and brown eyes. In my defense, I wanted to blurt out, “My grandmother’s maiden name was Donaldson!” The communion bread was Swedish Limpa, and the coffee served was delicious, hot, and abundant.

Photos of my husband and his brother as young boys depict typical blue-eyed towheads, blond hair bleached nearly white during summer months. Perhaps traces of Viking blood continue to course through their veins, fond as they both are of hunting, fishing, and all things outdoors. As young boys, they often stopped to pick up dead animals from alongside the road, taking them home to remove their hides and to preserve and display them on their bedroom walls. Perhaps because her heart tends more toward preserving beauty than preserving dead animal skins, my mother-in-law thought it might be a good idea to adopt some girls.

My husband has two Korean sisters, his parents having added two daughters to the family back in the pioneer days of international adoption. Attending school with few other Asian students, one of my husband’s sisters was once asked, “What are you?” by which her classmate meant, “Where are you from? What nationality are you?” With all sincerity she responded, “I’m Swedish!”  She had no idea that she wasn’t. Both she and her sister took turns dressing up in white robes, wearing wreaths of candles in their hair, portraying the Swedish martyr St. Lucia in their church’s annual December celebration. Differences in hair and eye color and countries of origin seemed to diminish in my husband’s family, united by love, faith, and tradition.

When my husband and I made the decision to adopt, we assumed we would follow the example of his parents.  We felt we were well prepared for and comfortable with international adoption as an avenue for building our family. As is often the case, however, our plans were redirected.  Our first child, our daughter, came to us having been born in the United States.  When we pursued adoption a second time, we were sure we would be bringing home for her a Korean sibling.  Once again, we were redirected—this time to the Philippines. As the beloved Swede and I traveled to meet our son, stopping along the way in both Japan and Korea, we felt ourselves grow taller and whiter the closer we came to Manila.

Sometimes I forget that my son’s experience here in the United States is the complete opposite of ours in the Philippines. As deeply woven as he is into the fabric of our family, it doesn’t occur to me that he looks different from the rest of us, or that difference is a concern to him. When looking at colleges recently, however, he commented about the lack of diversity within the student population on one of the campuses.  His observation reminded me that sometimes I need to stop and take a good look at him and remember that his story began in a faraway place before intersecting with the story of our family.

Through birth, marriage, and adoption, my Swedish father-in-law’s family has grown to include seven grandchildren. A beautiful blend of Caucasian, Korean, and Filipino faces surround him when we gather together as a family. Among us there is one bona-fide Swedish grandson who seems to have inherited the full measure of the hunting, fishing, and picking-dead-animals-up-from-the-side-of-the-road Viking DNA shared by his father and uncle. Because these people are my family, I sometimes forget how we appear to others. I’ve often been greeted with a quizzical stare when, for the first time, I introduce someone to a sister-in-law, a niece, a nephew, or my son. Though our family resemblances aren't evident to others, we know that our hearts are united by those things that matter most.

When my daughter was researching potential college scholarships, she came across an essay contest asking applicants to describe their experiences with diversity.  I told her I thought she should just send in a picture of our family gathered together around the Thanksgiving table. Feasting with others who represent a beautiful tapestry of tribes, languages, and tongues is what diversity looks like in our family. In other words, our experience with diversity feels like a foretaste of heaven.

Linking with Dena Dyer @ Mother Inferior and the good folks at The High Calling in a community writing project, telling stories about crossing cultures.