Whose Family?

One never expects a punctuation mark to matter as much as the one in the title of this post matters. See, I started to make it "Who's Family?" As in "who is family?" But then I realized, the question "Whose Family?" made sense as well. Technically, the people I call my family aren't. They are someone else's family. But they are my family too. Let's back up a bit...

The last few years haven't been my best, shall we say. And through it all, other people's family members have been there for me. Caitlyn's mom. Greg's sister. Cynthea's son. Pat's daughter. Matthew's dad. Landon's mother. Brian's wife. Georg's daughter.

Don't get me wrong; my friends NOT listed here are amazing. I am truly, indescribably blessed by the people in my life. Yet, there is something about this group of people. At some point, these people became more than friends. Landon's mother knew me in the womb for God's sake. I met Matthew's dad later in life but I don't remember ever not knowing him. Pat's daughter has been around since we were in the 4th grade together (she still has the Miss Piggy valentine I gave her during class valentine exchange). Greg's sister? She and I have been together 20 years (a thought that really threw us last week when we realized it). Caitlyn's mom ~ 13 years (thank God for alphabetized seating!). Cynthea's son ~ it's been less chronological time but that doesn't always matter. He taught me that. Brian's wife? She gives me permission to be honest, even when I don't like what I'm thinking. And last but never least, Goerg's daughter. She refuses to give up on me, let me sink too low for too long, and hears the truth behind my laughter ~ even when it's just more laughter.

Family is what we make it. Blood is important ~ just not vital. Love, commitment, loyalty. Someone to kick you in the butt when you're being stupid and help pick up the pieces afterwards. Someone who will tell you the truth when you need to hear it and someone who will help you ignore the truth until you are ready to handle it. The people you can call at 3 in the morning and not call for months.

Robert Frost (I think but I may be making that up) once described home as the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in. Home isn't about blood. Home is knowing you will be taken in, no matter what.

All of us have family. Look around you. There is someone, somewhere who will take you in and love you because of ~ and in spite of ~ yourself. Some of them may be related by blood. Others may be related by choice. But Whose Family doesn't matter nearly as much as Who's Family.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.