You can reference a post titled I Am Romanian if you have any questions about what you’re about to read. A dear dear friend who loves me and my heart read that blog post and sent me a DNA kit to solidify or nullify recent news of my ancestry.

Good friends want you to know what you want to know.

When I received my 23andMe kit, I quickly sent my saliva to the lab then patiently waited a good 5 or 6 weeks. Finally the results are in!

Shockingly, the report does not read, “Your wax technician was right on the money honey. You are indeed Romanian.” She wasn’t exactly right, but she wasn’t completely off. Same region just different stock.

The report reads:

99.8% European. 62.9% of that being Irish and British.

16% French and German and 1.8% of Scandinavian.

I am not a smidge African or Native American. I am not Asian.

Here’s the really cool part!

Hannah and I decided to take a trip to celebrate her 21st birthday combined with the last year of my 40’s and her college graduation. Without knowing ANY of this we chose Ireland.

I’m going home to my people. My motherland. My roots. 

 

It all makes COMPLETE sense. My early 90’s aspiration to master the River Dance…my affections for Ed Sheeran, James Vincent McMorrow and Enya…how I hate beer but sometimes I try it anyways with perhaps a feeling deep within my bones that I should like beer?! I have BIG LOVE for potatoes in every form. Ask me my favorite childhood cereal. Go ahead. Ask me. Lucky Charms. Of course. Craic! All the signs were there! My freckles…my love of rainbows…and now the story about the red headed young man that showed up at our house when I was a baby asking to “see the baby” makes me wonder…was that him? Did you see me in my dark skin and dark hair and think to yourself…Oh no…that baby is Romanian. I’m Irish. Can’t be mine. See ya! 

Flashback.

The year was 1990. I was substitute teaching a 3rd grade class. I was 21 and 7 months pregnant with Paige. Two boys seated at the back of the class were causing quite a stir with their arguing…I disrupted them and asked what the problem might be.

We are fighting over whether or not you are White or Mexican.

I said I was white and the young hispanic boy looked really upset. Did he just bet his lunch money on my ethnicity? Should I tell them it’s a truce because I’m adopted and they could both be right? Was a Little Debbie oatmeal pie up for grabs under conditions that were not completely factual but speculative?

This was the beginning of me wondering on a deeper level about who I was and what I wanted to be…Right there at Devonian Elementary in Andrews, Texas in a classroom full of 8 and 9 year olds I erased the titles of White Baptist Republican and wanted real answers. I had a baby due in a few weeks. Who am I? What are we? Are we Mexican???

But seriously…

As many of you know I grew up in the church. Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesdays, Week long revivals…surely by now I’ve heard EVERY scripture at least once if not more?! Maybe so, but lately I’ve been craving something deeper…richer. Wanting something stronger than all past knowledge and a fresh start with Jesus, in January I made a decision to read through the entire Bible, cover to cover, with intention.

While waiting for my DNA results I read this verse…as if for the first time.

“Honor your father and your mother so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving you.” Exodus 20:12

It stopped me. I read it again. Do you mean my biological parents, God?…. or Jim and Dorothy…my Mother and Daddy? Which one do I honor for this long life in the land?

I sat in my question and let it do what it wanted to do.

I waited on God to give me a heart answer…He did. Boy did He…and I got real with my feelings about my adoption…about my story.  I’ve had an unforgiveness in my heart that needed to be dealt with. Unforgiveness is sneaky people. You might need to dig deep to find it. It’s often buried…buried beneath sad and fear and busy and quests for perfection. Dig deep.

I’ve often been asked if I want to find my biological father. I’ve always said, no. Turns out…I do want to find him.

Not to see if we look alike. Not to ask about other family members or health related questions. Not to ask anything…

I want to find him so he can know he is forgiven.

Dear God, I forgive him. It was all he knew to do at that time and I pray he is well. I may never meet him this side of Heaven but I hope with all my hopes that more than the bloodline we share in our DNA, we share the precious Blood of Jesus. And I love him. Just as Christ does. Thank you for my life. Thank you for every cell that played a part in me being here. Thank you for every hand that cared for me, prayer that was prayed for me, both in and out of the womb. Bless them all. In Jesus Name. Amen.

Parents of Adopted Children.

If you have an adopted child do them the sweet favor of ordering them a DNA kit. Let them know as much as they can with an open heart and understanding.

Part of knowing your ancestry offers a huge sense of belonging…and a sense of belonging is a huge part of our basic human needs.

Oh…and I almost forgot this important detail…

Gina, based on your genetics, you have a slightly higher than average chance of hating the sound of others chewing.

It’s called misophonia. Hi my name is Gina. I am European and I have misophonia.

The only cure is drinking wine.