It is good to be here
Photo by Daiga Ellaby on Unsplash
I was born on an abnormally warm, cloudy day in December, in a hospital that now ceases to exist. It was an uncomplicated, quick labor before my mother and father held their sixth child—a little girl—in their arms. My mom said I was her easiest baby and that I almost never fussed. There would be only one more child to come after me.
God created my soul nine months prior, when I was created in a lab, or possibly “turkey basted” into my mother. Nobody really told me the details and I never wanted to press. The sperm that was part of the process was, to phrase it charitably, “collected” and frozen. I’m not exactly sure when. It might have been years that it sat in a freezer before making it to a clinic in this Midwestern city.
The sperm belonged to my biological father, a man who I didn’t know existed and didn’t meet until I was 22 years old. He is a secular Jewish man, living in Los Angeles. His father, my grandfather, was a minor movie star. My father found luck in theater production, but not before being a struggling actor and prolific sperm donor when he was younger, my current age. He is a father, confirmed through DNA tests, to 37 people. I am one of them, and the other 36 are my half siblings. They, in addition to the six half siblings I grew up with, are my 42 half siblings. He did not know any of us 37 existed until we were no longer children. I often think of him as my “nature father”.
This would make the father that raised me, the one married to my mom, my “nurture father”. He came from a large family himself and has worked very hard as a carpenter for most of his life. Growing up, not having known differently, I always thought I inherited more of his genes than my mom’s. His love for me was so devout that I never had reason to suspect I was not born of him. I used to always joke to friends that I was his favorite child.
When I graduated college, my soon-to-be husband bought me a 23andMe test (we married shortly after I mailed my spit sample in). I was interested in genealogy and genetics and wanted to take it for fun. A few weeks after our wedding, we were chugging down the highway en route to our modest apartment after having spent the day at a local festival. I remember what I wore that day: a green skirt and my maternal grandmother’s pearl earrings. I remember what I ate that day: a pulled pork sandwich and a Diet Coke. I remember hearing over the phone just an hour prior that my sister’s childhood friend delivered a stillborn baby.
I also remember sitting with my legs crossed in the passenger seat and opening my email to see that my 23andMe results were ready. I opened them eagerly and prepared to read the interesting parts aloud to my husband. Immediately, I shared with an excited air that my ancestry breakdown was 50% Ashkenazi Jewish (having been under the assumption I was almost entirely German). Before my husband could articulate his thoughts, I impulsively sent a screenshot in the family group chat to share this rather exciting finding, one I assumed applied to the group. My husband carefully said, “I don’t think that is right. If you are half-Jewish, that means one of your parents has to be fully Jewish, and that isn’t true.” I felt my stomach sink and hoped that maybe my DNA results were mixed up with another’s. This hope did not last long, as I discovered the “connect to DNA relatives” option. At the very top of the list, I read the name of a man that I did not know. It said that we shared 50% of each other’s DNA, and it said that the most likely relationship was that of father and daughter. Quickly typing his name into Google, I found his very well-documented story as a donor father. He was meeting his children as they appeared on ancestry apps, and the media attention surrounding many of these meet-ups was extensive.
I first burst into tears at the shock of this unveiled secret. I then called my mom. I remember walking barefoot in the gravel of our apartment driveway. The small rocks embedded on the bottom of my feet while I spoke with my mother, who was fearfully awaiting my phone call after seeing the group message. She first denied it, before realizing it couldn’t be explained away. Her voice was small and sad, but she did not sound sorry. She had nothing she wanted to share. I expected her to come clean, to release the truth she so long guarded. She didn’t want to talk about it, she only told me that she loved me and I knew she was telling the truth. I called my dad next, the one who raised me, who I admired and loved, the one who shaped so much of my identity. He reminded me of a puppy being yelled at, and I found myself not asking him any questions. I heard myself telling him that I loved him, that it didn’t change anything.
Not long after, I met my biological father. Ideologically, we had nothing in common. I was the first Christian that he ever knew. He told me that out of all of his children, my eyes were the most like his. I looked at his eyes, which were very large and a grayed shade of blue, with perpetually tired bags underneath. I knew they were my eyes too. When he laughed, his hands moved the way mine did, with that same instinctive flourish. A part of me felt exposed, as if I was watching myself from a stranger’s perspective. I wanted to look away, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling of recognition. Whenever I mentioned him, my nature father, to my parents, they were not interested. They would look away and the conversation would end.
Eventually, I learned not to bring it up anymore.
The Church doesn’t always give the faithful the tools to navigate the messy scenarios we find ourselves in. We know that every method of conception outside of what naturally occurs between a man and his wife is immoral. We know that sin creates brokenness and that brokenness creates suffering. We know that God can use everything for His good. My dad told me that he wasn’t sorry that they did IVF, because if they hadn’t done it, I would not be here. I found myself stumbling, explaining that intricacies of why IVF is wrong. Yet, I could not articulate how he could be sorry for the sin, but glad that I came to be. I later realized what I think my dad intuitively knew: that my existence and the sinful nature of my creation aren’t inherently connected anymore. What was wrong was already done, but God’s grace prevailed. I am glad for my parents that raised me, and I am glad for the opportunity to play a role in the life of my biological father who does not yet know Christ. I am glad to be here.
A few months ago, I lost a child to a miscarriage. It further shaped my understanding of God’s providence and mercy. There are people born into brokenness, unwanted. There are people born into brokenness that are so loved. There are people born in the way God intends. There are also people who are created, but never born at all, like my little baby. I see that this little life conceived within the grace of God’s design was providentially not intended to live in this world. Yet my own life, not made in the way God intended, was chosen by Him to experience both the joys and the trials of our fallen world. God’s providence is not within my own construct of what makes sense. Those of us that are here, are here by His design, even if not through His method. His will for the world reveals itself in surprising ways, where you would not expect it. We, especially us bastard children, only have to be looking for it.