Mismatched Plaids

I’m not sure when it started, or how it started. But some time ago one of the boys in our family wore a plaid shirt to church one Sunday.  Just one time.  Apparently, one of that boy’s brothers took a look and decided that the plaid shirt looked good.  And the next week a couple of our boys wore plaid shirts to church.  

But it didn’t stop there.  The idea spread down the pew.  Pretty soon all of our boys, I think there were 6 or 7 of them at the time, started wearing plaid shirts to church.  As far as we know, none of them ever discussed this.  They just did it.  And each week there was another plaid shirt, and another, and another.  Like a communicable disease.  

And like a communicable disease, it soon spread to the girls.  Again, nothing was said.  At least not to Geoff or me.  They just showed up Sunday morning, ready for church, sporting plaid shirts. We’re pretty sure we weren’t seeing plaids during the rest of the week.  Only on Sundays.

We never said anything to any of the kids about it.  We never pointed it out, or asked what the significance was of everyone wearing plaid.  I don’t know, maybe we were concerned that if we commented on it, it would only intensify their focus.  And we’d end up with even more plaid somehow.  Or worse.  Polka dots.  

Last Sunday I got to church a few minutes late, and the rest of our family was already seated in our pew.  Silently, I shook my head at the row of plaids.  I could pick out our family from a fairly significant distance.  At least on Sundays. 

Geoff and I caught each other’s eye and shook our heads.  And as the service started, I got to thinking about family. About our family.  And how things can clash, and go together at the same time.

Our family is a giant, mismatched group of people, who mostly love each other most of the time.  When they’re not fighting, or taking each other’s things, or saying that they hate each other.

We started doing foster care over 12 years ago.  Over the years we’ve had kids who have just needed a safe place to stay for a few days, or a few months, a year or two, and for life.  

We count the members of our family based on who currently lives in the home, and those who are permanent—either biological or adopted.  But really that’s not accurate.   Because there are other members of our family who, though they don’t live here anymore and aren’t legally our kids, will always be our kids. And we will always be their Mom and Dad. So when people ask how many kids we have, we’ll answer with a number.  Because “I’m not sure” sounds weird. 

Our “kids” range in age from single digits to late 20’s.  They come from a variety of ethnic and racial backgrounds, and in a variety of skin tones.  Which is actually a source of frequent discussions in our house.  Isn’t it interesting that two Alaska Native kids from the same tribe can have completely different skin tones?  But then arguably two of our biological kids have different skin tones, too.

Some members of our family are brunette, some blond, a few black, and even a couple red-heads.  We have afros—picked and unpicked, thick curly hair with lots of hair product to help it mind, fine straight hair, coarse straight hair that wants to stick straight up in all directions, short hair, long hair, some well cared for, some not.

As I looked down the pew at all the clashing colors and patterns of plaid I realized that the plaid thing kind of works for our family.  Plaid never matches other plaid.  It’s different colors, different patterns.  And when you have a bunch of plaids together you tend to notice how different they all are than how alike they are.  But even though it clashes, it kind of fits.  

Plaids don’t match.  But you know they all belong.

Just like the members of our family.