• 14 •

Dear Tom

Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others. . . . Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth.

KATHERINE MANSFIELD, JOURNAL OF KATHERINE MANSFIELD

A FEW SUMMERS AGO, my wonderings about the man whose family data was bundled in my bones came to a head, and I reached out to him in a letter. Though I had known Tom’s name and address for fourteen years, I had never tried contacting him before. I had good reasons. For one thing, showing up at Tom’s door seemed like a bad episode of a daytime talk show. And if I mailed a letter, what if his wife, presumably in the dark about me, should open it?

More important, I felt fiercely loyal to my dad. It felt unfaithful, fickle somehow, to dig up facts about my original father. Then when cancer took Abe before he turned seventy, I realized that time was short. I also realized that he would always be my dad, the one I’d think of whenever something really good happened in my life, or something really bad; the man I’d immediately picture whenever hearing Southern Gospel music or the German language, or whenever I’d visit a Christian bookstore. He was one of the voices I’d long to hear after someone broke my kids’ hearts—or my own. Loyalty to my dad was probably why I resisted reaching out to Tom until years after Abe had died.

Besides, in the end, I felt something like a divine hand, nudging me forward.

It started with a burden on my spirit about eight months before. I knew I had to pray for my birth father. I Googled him for the first time in years and discovered my birth grandmother’s obituary. I learned that she was a sweet, sassy pioneer girl and a devout Christian, too. The obit also identified Tom’s children, my biological half siblings.

It took me all of four seconds to look them up. There’s not much resemblance with me. My sister looks nothing like me. In fact, in her Facebook pictures she has friends who look a lot more like me than she does. But one of my brothers? He doesn’t look like me either, but he does resemble Jonah so much it’s unsettling.

Paternity confirmed! Tom was my birth father. He was getting older and had no grandchildren besides my three kids. Life is short, and I wanted to be the kind of person to choose love. God assured me He would take care of whether Tom’s wife intercepted the letter I had written.

August 1, 2013

Dear Tom,

I’ve been thinking and praying for a while about whether or not I should reach out to you. Obviously, I decided to take the plunge. Life is short, and I want to be the kind of person who chooses love and connection, regardless of the risk.

Our story started forty-five years ago, when you and my birth mother, Theodora Rudineska, had a brief romance. I was the result. I want you to know I’m not reaching out in anger or shame. I’m glad you and Dora broke up and that I was adopted. I’m so glad God led me to the parents and family He led me to.

But lately, I have come to realize that though we may never meet, you are a part of me, and I am a part of you. I look like Dora—a lot—but our personalities are not alike. I understand you are very athletic, while my basketball and volleyball careers in school were lackluster at best. Still, half of my DNA is yours, and I think that influenced and shaped me more than I have thought.

Let me also say that I am not looking for a father at this late stage. I had a dad who rocked me to sleep when I was a baby, drove me and my friends to the mall in Winnipeg blizzards, and sacrificed everything on a bookseller’s salary to send me to private school and college, and put braces on my teeth. He was a loving dad and proud opa. My son Jonah’s middle name is Abram, after my dad. He died seven years ago, of lung cancer at the age of sixty-eight. He never smoked, other than a rhubarb leaf when he was a kid. And yet, lung cancer took him from us.

So I’m not looking for you to fill shoes that are impossible to fill at this stage. I guess I want the chance to be friends, to learn more about you and to have you learn more about me and my incredible family. This may be too much to ask, or it may be not enough. But something tells me you might be ready, after all these years, for another chance to connect.

I live in Grand Rapids, Michigan, now, and have for twenty years. I met my husband of twenty-one years at a private Christian college in downtown Chicago (one of the places that feels like home to me). Doyle is from Muskegon, MI, an hour away from here, on Lake Michigan. He’s a huge fisherman and hunter and is the country boy to my city girl. We both love the big lake though. I transferred my love for Lake Winnipeg to Lake Michigan: I love not being able to see the other side.

We have three children: Jonah, fifteen; Ezra, twelve; and Phoebe, eight. Jonah is going to get his driver’s permit tomorrow! I can’t believe it. He’s a good kid, a good student who lives to play hockey and lacrosse, fish, hunt, and play guitar. He’s played hockey for eight years and now plays for his JV team at Grand Rapids Christian High School, one of the top high schools in Michigan. This season, he got pulled up to play varsity lacrosse even though he was just a freshman (grade 9).

Our Ez is just the sweetest boy, a gifted writer and artist, gymnast and hurdler (this year, he went out for sixth-grade track and shocked himself when he placed third in hurdles and high jump in a five-school meet).

(Any artistic talent on your side? I am artistically inclined, and a pretty decent drawer, but Ezra is truly outstanding. Neither Doyle’s parents nor Dora have laid claim yet.) Phoebe is a spark plug, a turbocharged soccer player who loves dogs and friends. She was adopted from South Korea as a baby.

They are my heart and soul.

How do I not make this sound like a Christmas letter? This is so hard to write.

I grew up in North Kildonan, like all good Mennonite children. My dad immigrated to Canada at age ten from Germany via Ukraine, and my mum grew up in McTavish, Manitoba, near Rosenort and Morris. I have one brother, Dan, who is two and a half years younger than I am. He was also adopted, and we grew up knowing that we were loved.

We were well loved by our parents, grandparents, and huge extended families, especially our Loewen family in Rosenort. I believe I have forty-four first cousins! Crazy, and fun. My dad was a bookseller, and my mum was a nurse (but only after I turned fifteen and she went back to work). Highlights of my childhood were trips to Woodstock, Ontario, and Fernie, BC, to visit cousins, weeks at Camp Arnes, and days at Grand Beach and Rushing River. In the winter, I remember tobogganing, snowmobiling with my cousins at the floodway, and 7-Eleven nosebleed tickets to see the Jets. I still love the Jets with a burning passion that draws admiration and ire from fans here of the Red Wings. I cried when they were abducted to the desert by Bettman, and I cried when they came back home!

My major in college was broadcasting. I knew I wanted to be a journalist, and I dreamed of being the next Jane Pauley. Pretty quickly I realized broadcasting was not for me. It was way too techie—all those input/output plugs and wires! I can hardly replace batteries in my camera.

Writing was always my first love, and I’ve been lucky enough to be the author of twelve books.

Doyle and I got married in 1991. He’s a wonderful guy, a computer programmer who would rather be a fishing guide. We are close to his family and grateful they live so close.

My last book of twelve is called My Journey to Heaven, and I wrote it collaboratively with a darling seventy-seven-year-old man who had a heaven experience. I had been cynical about those experiences, but meeting Marv convinced me wholly (within about a minute) that his trip to the other side had been bona fide. Marv, who died about eight months before the book came out, became a bonus dad to me. I am so grateful.

Yes, a “bonus dad.” In my life I’ve had a few dear people who have been fathers and mothers to me and my kids. Grandpa George is one example. He and his wife, Grandma Pat, came into our lives through their daughter, Rachel, a friend of mine in college. We reconnected when Doyle and I moved to Grand Rapids. Rachel became a missionary and moved overseas, and so they started inviting Doyle and me over for home-cooked meals, even though Rachel was gone. When I was in a terrible car accident in 1997, Pat came and nursed me at home for two weeks. After that, they were stuck with us forever, and they readily agreed to be a special grandma and grandpa to our kids when they came soon after.

(Jonah just came upstairs to tell me Grandpa had stopped by with one hundred dollars for him to spend on his mission trip to Pittsburgh, for which he leaves tomorrow. Tears welled up as I reflected again that they could not love my kids more if they were their blood relatives.)

Which brings me to this thought: I very much hope you will consider opening your heart to me, to us, and consider it a “bonus” in your life and in the lives of your family. I am guessing my existence is a secret that you have not shared with many people, and that sharing it is an overwhelming, maybe terrifying thought. In my experience, secrets hold you hostage, while the truth, though painful and scary, leads to peace. I understand you are from another generation, one that doesn’t share secrets easily, and that it could be extremely difficult for you to tell the people you love that you have a child out there, and grandchildren, too. I’m guessing this news would be hardest to share with your wife, who has no biological connection to me at all.

If it helps, I have a very nice relationship with Bill, Dora’s husband. He was an only child, and they only had one child, Danica, so they have a small family. He said something so beautiful, years ago, when Dora and I reconnected and he had a chance to process it all (she had kept my birth a secret for thirty years). He said that he didn’t have a lot of family members and that he was happy to welcome a few more, especially since he liked me and Doyle so well. He’s a favorite person of ours, by the way, and he’s not “related” to us either!

I’ve taken a month to write this letter, now a mini-nonfiction book. I’ve had to lay it down often because of other deadlines, because it’s summertime and the kids are only little once, and because it’s just so loaded. What do I tell you? How will you receive it all? Do you even care? I just simply don’t know. And if I never finish it, I never have to send it . . .

I do know that, according to Dora, you were told about my existence about fourteen or fifteen years ago (but you might have already known). You had said “no” then to a relationship with me, and some other things that were pretty hard to hear. (Your career path? Really?) I know you may not have said it all exactly as Dora interpreted it. Maybe you just didn’t know what to say.

I’m glad I heard about your “no” when my life was stable and grounded in faith and family. I was terribly hurt for a time and angry that you weren’t even willing to meet me for coffee to tell me about your side of the family. I thought you owed that to me, and I still think so. But, all things considered, I got over it. I felt it was your loss in many ways, and I was able to look at the situation objectively. You weren’t rejecting me and my beautiful baby (now a beautiful teenager with a driver’s permit), because you didn’t even know us. I forgave you a long time ago and have prayed for you many times over the years.

I’ve known your name since then, so of course I looked you up in the phone book immediately, but I have always respected your privacy. Besides, showing up at your door is not my style and seems like a bad episode of a cheesy talk show . . .

In February, I looked you up and found your mother’s obituary. She sounds like she was an extraordinary lady, which thrilled me. I love her name, and that she was a strong woman of faith. I read the obituary over the phone to my mum, who said, “She sounds just like you!” I know she is among that great cloud of witnesses now, praying for you, and now me, too.

I should wrap this up.

I’ve given you lots to think about.

I’ve been resistant all these years to writing, because I was worried that it would be read first by someone who didn’t know about me. I did not want to cause drama for you, so I never wrote. But like I said, the last six months have been different. I have felt led to reach out and leave the matter of your wife possibly reading this in hands stronger than mine. I know those strong hands are working in both your lives to prepare you for this letter.

What if you never actually did shut the door on a relationship? What if you did at the time, but have come to think differently and maybe regret it? What if you are ready now?

I hope you let that old secret out in the light of day, but I won’t pressure you. I want healing and happiness in this for you, too. But please do let me know if you got my letter so the suspense does not kill me outright.

With a hope and a prayer,

Lorilee