family.

Isn't it so weird to think how much the family you are born into affects the way to think, the way you speak, what you believe, how hard you work, your standards, your expectations, and even your likes and dislikes.

Sometimes I think that other peoples' upbringings are so much more interesting than my own.

My immediate family is incredibly normal. My siblings don't have a funny bone in their body. My parents don't like anything outside of the Midwest. And my grandparents spent most of their lives living, working and dying within a fifteen mile radius of where they were born.

I think that's why I appreciate the abnormal.

I used to think that all families were the same. The dad, the mom and the two-to-four kids all lived happily in a cute house with more than enough food, clothing and love. Everyone is nice to each other all the time and at any moment, a television crew could show up, start filming, and all family interactions were fairy-tale enough to be appropriate for a G rating.

I was reminded this week how far from reality that really is.

As I sat in my grandma's hospital room reading, a man about my age walked in and started talking to the middle aged woman in the bed on the other side of the not-so-private-curtain. The conversation went like this:

"Well mom, I've got some great news. Actually, first I have bad news. I borrowed your car and got you a parking ticket. Haha. Here it is for ya! But don't worry, because it's only ten dollars. And the great news is that while I was out getting you a parking ticket, I also got myself a divorce! I can finally say it--I'm officially divorced. It feels good to say that. Oh yeah, did the doctor tell you that you don't have cancer? He said that chunk from your lung that they removed was actually just a fungus ball. Yeah, mom! It was about this big [makes a large circle with his thumb and pointer finger]. That's disgusting. Well, I can tell by the way you're not responding to me that you're still on a lot of drugs so I'm going to go check on my kids. Can you smell my sweatshirt? It stinks. Junior took down his pants yesterday and wizzed all over the couch and I'm pretty sure someone used my sweatshirt to clean it up. That's why it stinks. Oh, and that bastard keeps calling me. He was piss drunk, called my cell phone and accused me of giving him a fake phone number. I said to him 'I'm talking to you on the phone right now, ain't I? So how could I have given you the wrong number?' I told him you don't need him calling here bothering you. Man, I got a crazy dad, huh? Anyway, I'll be back in a little bit when you can understand me."

With a click of his heels, he was out the door and down the hallway.

I sat there for a moment and thought about what his household looked like growing up. I can only imagine it was nothing less than eventful at all times. It made me think a lot about my family and where I grew up. As easy as it is for me to complain that it's all so boring, I'm thankful that the Lord blessed me with a family and a community the He did.