48 whitson.

                                                  

I'm 48 now. 

Officially. As of today. Not sure what time, but it was, according to my birth certificate and adoption records, 48 years ago today. 

Then I was adopted, on May 10th of the same year. Forgive me if you've heard this one before- it's part of my story, and if you know me, you know that. 

                                                       

What some people may NOT know is this, though: 

This day, March 30th, 2022, I get to say "I know who my birth mom is." 

I know who she is, who some members of my biological familly are, where they live, addresses, and phone numbers.

Isn't DNA incredble?

I've done that annoying thing people do- I think some refer to it as stalking, but I prefer to call it "visual confirmation" - wherein I may have quite possibly spent the first 3-4 hours after finding out her name checking out social media sites of people that are listed in my family tree. And their families. And their pets.

Know what?

I can connect those dot-dot-dots now. The bloodlines aren't unknown anymore, and familial punctuation is lining up, waiting for end-of-sentence finality. 

Some question marks hover, however, filling in spaces where only nurture has lived, begging for nature to fill in the blanks. Connections are happening, though; I have a name and a face to connect to the what-ifs, and the "who is she" has been replaced in my heartspace with "when can I...?"

I have her nose. I have her smile. I have her hands (incidentally, my mom and I have always said that birthmom's hands would be top of the "pay attention to this if I ever meet her" list). 

                                       

                                               

On this birthday, I celebrate her. 

I honor the woman who lives only a couple hours from here, with a family of her own- children and grandchildren- sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews of mine. I laud her quietly, from afar, this cup running over...gratitude I pray I will someday get to pour out onto her, in person. This story is mine, this birthday is mine, but the loss, the separation, the wondering I'm sure doesn't belong to only me. She was there, too, and at some point, maybe her brow still soaked with the strain of ushering me into the world, her eyes saw me, if only briefly, and she had to say goodbye. Her hands led me into someone else's. How empty they must have felt. How heavy the weight of nothing must have burdened her- her womb was empty, her hands the same. 

I'll write her a letter soon. I'm still processing all of this; it is fresh, it is lovely, but it is so many other things. So many good, beautiful, God things. Good, beautiful, God things that she- they- may not be ready for. I'll know when it's time, and He's already been there, thankfully.

Happy 48th birthday to me. She's the gift, the candles, the cake, the streamers, and better than a birthday burger and fries. Her face, her name, yes, are treasures. More than that, though, is the staggering depth of her sacrifice. 

She let go with those hands...

                                      

...you know, the ones that look like mine.

-jml