First Love

This is a love story, not about a former love interest, or even my husband, who, incidentally, WAS my first and only love interest – now for nearly 30 years. No, this is not a story even of how I loved someone, but about how someone loved me. This is a story about a man who is no longer alive, but whose love greatly impacted the way I would eventually learn to love and be loved. This is a story about a man named Bill.

Let me first give a little background so you can figure out how Bill fits into my story. It all began with my birth mother, Twanette Marie. Tony, as she was called, had had a tumultuous childhood, living between her grandmothers’ and her parents homes. Eventually, she ended up in Kodiak, Alaska, where, I was told, she became a prostitute to provide for herself. This was the beginning of the mental illness that would eventually shatter our family. She met and married a native man, having three beautiful children with him; Deanna, Troy and Amber. The marriage didn’t last. But no love lost, she quickly moved on with a man she hardly knew, conceiving his baby. That baby was me. My birth father abandoned us, my mother and siblings, to start a family with someone else, never looking back (the exact words he would tell me in person 30 years later.) Tony fell in love again, to a man named Bill, with whom she would bear her fifth child, Liesl. I love to look at the few pictures I have of all of us, together, laughing and loving. Even though I was technically not Bill’s daughter, he would scoop me onto his arms, call me ‘Goober” and treat me like I belonged to him.

Hard times consumed our mother as she tried to cope with former issues of neglect and abuse, exacerbating her fragile mental state. One terrible day when we children were 9, 7, 5, 3 and 1 years old Tony gave up and took her life, leaving chaos, heartbreak and loneliness.

The three older children went to live with their father, and my little sister had her daddy, the man who had been married to our mother at the time of her death. Technically, I was an orphan, but Bill looked out for my welfare as much as he did his own biological daughter. Unfortunately, he was not only wracked with grief, but had also broken his back, rendering him unable to care for Liesl and me. The two of us went into foster care. My little sister was as cute a button and well-loved, with her bright blue eyes and round cheeks. But I became the one hated, beaten, neglected, and utterly bewildered. I was three years old, my mother had died, my older siblings had been torn away from me and all I had were my clothes, my little sister, and a bare bathtub I called my bed. Eventually Bill realized that he could not ever again take care of his girls, and when a married couple stepped in to adopt my sister and me, he consented.

This was not the end of Bill’s presence in our lives. It was, in fact, the resuming and continuation of the beautiful relationship we had once had, not so long ago. For all the hardships that ensued in our new lives, our adopted parents allowed Bill to have as much visiting time as he wanted. Remember, I was not his flesh and blood, so he could have chosen to devote his attention only to his rightful offspring. But he chose to include me as his daughter. He made every effort to visit several times a year and never forgot to send birthday and Christmas cards. I never lost the wonder and joy when I would read his signature at the bottom of a letter, “Love, Dad.” I would run my fingers over his words, tears welling up at the thought that I was loved. I marveled that someone so utterly unattached to me genetically would love a curly headed orphan-girl, making her feel like she belonged to him and he to her.

I grew up, becoming completely engrossed in my adult life with my husband and children. I temporarily forgot the feeling of awe that Bill’s love had on my life as a child, even though we stayed in contact. One day I received an invitation from Bill to go on an all-expense-paid vacation with him and my little sister. She and I have been adoringly close through the years, cultivating a deep love and faithfulness that has endured hardship and death. I was only too excited and accepted the invitation. We had a glorious time cruising through California, laughing, joking, talking and loving each other. We belonged to each other through trial and tribulation, and were, at last, together again.

Our reunion was sweet, but all things do have a natural end, even good things. About 7 years ago Bill died, leaving an example of unconditional love for me to ponder and cherish. A couple things come to mind at this point: one, never take for granted the love others have for you, and two, the impact your love can have on others. Lastly, my thoughts go to 1 Peter 4:12-13, "Dear friends, do not be astonished  that a trial by fire is occurring among you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice in the degree that you have shared in the sufferings of Christ, so that when his glory is revealed you may also rejoice and be glad."