It doesn’t take a math genius to quickly discover that I was only seventeen years old at the conception and only eighteen years old at the birth of my first born. I was (am?) a teen parent; I gave birth to a child out of wedlock.
Fast forward over nine years later and I am happily married to the father of my son and that blued eyed child is an absolute delight to us and his three siblings. However, I have always been aware that we invite judgement, questions and, worst of all, assumptions. I have felt the judgemental stares, noticed the condescending whispers, but I have not allowed myself to be consumed with what others think of me and my family. People will think what they choose to think.
Then came the day that my children came home from playing outside with some children in our neighborhood and the second born inquired about the meaning of the word ‘bastard’. I explained that it was not a nice word used to insult children and their mothers because the father is not involved with the family for one reason or another.
“Well then you can’t be one of those, Connor, because you have a dad.”
“Did someone call Connor this name?”
“Yeah, _______ says that Connor is a bastard because he was born before you and Daddy got married.”
We have always been honest and open about our past with our boys. All of our wedding photos have a 3 month old baby in them and apparently one of the kids who had come into play with our boys had noticed. He had inquired about the baby while out playing with our kids and one of the older boys overheard their conversation. This older boy then gave my son the label of ‘bastard’.
My initial reaction to hearing this news was to track down the boy who had called my son such a vile name and physically hurt him (just being honest…). My anger subsided pretty quickly upon realizing that this boy is most likely regurgitating the things that he hears and learns at home. My anger at him was replaced with sadness for him. But how it hurt my heart to see my son with his head lowered and his shoulders slumped, carrying the weight of ridicule on his young shoulders. The injustice of it just broke my heart and filled me such sorrow.
At this point I became indignant and spoke firmly to both of my older boys.
“I hate that word. We will not use in this family. Furthermore, Connor you are not a bastard. You are the son of Abe and Emily…the brother of Isaac, Eli and Benjamin….and most importantly you are a child of God created perfectly in His image and for His good works.
Oh how I pray that my precious children would always know and believe the truth of those words. They are fearfully and wonderfully made. They have been given a hope and a future. They are loved by God,redeemed by Jesus, and sealed by the Spirit and nothing can ever take that away from them.
(And, in case you’re wondering, I also hope this for the boy who called my son such an awful name.)
As a side note: One of my favourite bloggers, Jamie @ experiencing LIFE with a personal God runs a series called “Everyone has a story”. It’s been a great encouragement and provocation to me!
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