Whose kid is that?…

I recently read Trevor Noah’s book, “Born a Crime”.

It’s a great read period. Not because of where I am in life but because it’s a fascinating story about a kid with a white dad and a black mom growing up in Apartheid. It was a crime for his parents to be together, therefore, “Born a Crime”.

Some crazy stories about survival but there was one story that sticks out to me that probably won’t stick out to most. He was in a grocery store with his mom when he was little. He wanted something, I don’t remember what. I think it was a caramel apple. Something like that. And he wanted it bad and was throwing a fit to get it.

His mom wasn’t going to get him the candy. As she walked away from him throwing a fit she went to the register to check out and he came running still throwing a fit. His mom told the cashier, “Do you know whose kid this is, he keeps acting like I’m his mom and I seriously don’t know who he is. Could you call a manager to see if they can find his mother?” And it was believable because Trevor wasn’t as black as his mom.

Trevor recalls the feeling to this day. He immediately forgot the candy and began yelling, “You’re my mother!! Why are you saying that, you’re my mother!” She continued to deny who he was. He was frantic and she continued.

She left the store and he followed her crying and crying, “Why are you doing this, you’re my mother!”

She taught him a lesson that day, one of many.

I can feel the terror actually. The terror of not belonging, not feeling safe.

I’ve always felt like I didn’t belong. My views were shaped by things that I wish they weren’t. Always feeling unsafe and responding to life through that lens. Always feeling like I have to be the best so as to overcome the burden I am. I’m incredibly comfortable in my skin, yet know that I don’t really belong. My natural parents want nothing to do with me. Even now and I don’t need a kidney or money or anything.

Yet, I was adopted. Twice.

My parents adopted me. Because they wanted me. As imperfect as some things were, there is no denying that. They had no money and no business taking on a fifth mouth to feed. And…my heavenly father adopted me. Into his family forever.

I sit in a coffee shop and write and the pain is really high. And I feel lonely. But I know where I belong…this place is not my home.

And it’s there where I belong. I am the kid of the King of Kings….that’s whose kid I am!