Friday, September 12, 2014
I am a pure-blooded American, by which I mean that I’m a
healthy mix of Scotch-Irish, Italian, Dutch, French, and English. I was born and bred in the heart of the
United States, the Midwest. Others may
argue that the heart of the United States of America is found in its cities,
such as New York, Chicago, or Boston, but I hold that somewhere among the
“amber waves of grain”, fields of corn and soybeans, and flat stretches of
highway for miles upon miles; somewhere in the people of small towns and farm
families is the true heart of my country, what it was founded on. I know my country is not perfect, by any
means, but I have always loved it and been proud of its history and the freedom
I have as one of its citizens.
I remember
discussions I used to have with my friends in grade school and junior high – we
asked each other questions like, “If you could go anywhere in the world, where
would it be?” and “If you could have been born anywhere else, where would you
choose?” I hated questions like these,
because I always felt like my answers were so lame. Because, if I could choose, I wouldn’t live
anywhere else. Sure, I might visit some
exciting, romantic place like Italy or Ireland, but live there? Been born there? No way.
I’d take my country home, cow pastures and corn fields, small-town life,
over those places any day.
I’ve always
been proud of my family heritage, as well.
Every time my parents or aunts and uncles tell stories about their
childhoods I am all ears. I wish I could
just curl up on the floor at their feet and listen to them talk all day
long. My dad’s side of the family is
Italian, and proud of it. My ancestors
even came over from Italy on the boat through Ellis Island, New York! I felt like I was living right in the middle
of ancient history when I heard about that.
I loved it when my dad talked about growing up calling everyone “Aunt”
and “Uncle” even if they weren’t blood-relatives. His life as a kid sounded straight out of a
book. My mom’s family is where the Scotch-Irish
comes from. They were all about
tradition and faith. They even started
their own town in northern Illinois to keep everyone together, following the
same rules and living the same lifestyle.
I loved my
heritage, I loved my nationality, and I loved my home. But then I began hearing in church and Sunday
School about God’s chosen people, the Israelites. I knew I was a Christian, and that God had
chosen me and loved me, but to be a part of His chosen nation?! Now that
was a heritage. I began telling people
that if I ever wanted to be anyone else with any other history, I wanted to be
an Israelite. I was still proud of my
own family and origin, but it was my dream to have been one of them.
So when I first heard a lesson on Romans 8:14-17
I was so ecstatic I could hardly breathe.
I was one of them. I was.
Not by blood, no, but through adoption nonetheless. I was adopted by God. I was His chosen child, one of His chosen
people. A fellow heir with Christ. I could hardly believe that my dream had
already come true, and I hadn’t even known it.
I’ve always loved the idea of adoption and greatly admired those who are
courageous enough to take part in it.
But I couldn’t ever understand being on the other side…being the one waiting
to be adopted. Wanting to be
chosen. And then the joy that comes when
the adoption process is finalized, and they finally belong. Though I will never fully comprehend that,
feeling a desire to be part of another heritage has helped me come a little
closer to understanding, and putting myself in the shoes of such children. Adopted.
I am not only BLESSED and CHOSEN; I am ADOPTED. Adopted into God’s
family, God’s heritage, God’s people.
“He predestined us to
adoption as sons through Jesus Christ to Himself, according to the kind
intention of His will, to the praise and glory of His grace, which He freely
bestowed on us in the Beloved.”
Ephesians 1:5
