Catherine and her daughter enjoy an evening of Scrabble at a pension in Cappadocia, Turkey—one stop on their epic 2008 Europe trip. Photo by Jamie Howison.

As a bi-racial (black and white) adoptee, one of my childhood fantasies growing up in a white, middle-class Canadian family was that I was a princess. I secretly believed that the day I met my biological parents I would be greeted warmly by the queen and king of some distant and mysterious African country.

Needless to say, a small part of my imagination was bruised when, at age 21, I met, for the first time, my biological parents. My birth mother was a Caucasian Mennonite from southern Manitoba and my birth father turned out to be the direct descendant of southern U.S. slaves. There was no royalty in my lineage—at least none that was possible to trace.

Despite this secret fantasy, meeting my birth parents was never ultimately about reclaiming lost family. I have a family, and I never felt like I didn’t belong. Finding my birth parents was always about completing the puzzle that was my life. It was about getting answers to questions about where I came from and why I look the way I do.

So, when my daughter and I developed a close relationship with my biological grandparents it was a delightful surprise. Since they had no other grandchildren, I filled a certain place in their lives, and the opportunity to do that was a blessing to me. When my grandmother died this past March my daughter and I mourned in the same way we would have had she been our grandma all our lives. My relationship with my birth mother did not develop in the same way.

Giving me up had left such a hole in Darlene’s heart that she spent the next 38 years trying to fill it with alcohol and nicotine. By the time I came back into her life there was no room for me, or anyone else, for that matter. But, cancer found its way in and, in an already compromised body, it made its way quickly and effortlessly through her lungs, lymphatic system, bones, and eventually her brain.

One evening in May I got the call I had been dreading for some time. Darlene’s ex-husband told me that she was in the hospital with pneumonia brought on by lung cancer. Having been estranged from her for 11 years, I had a choice to make. Did I step in and be there for her as she faced death? Or did I thank him for informing me, hang up the phone, and leave that door closed, focusing instead on my own family?

It would have been much easier to let Darlene live (or die) with the consequences of all her bad choices. Who could fault me? I didn’t owe her anything. She wasn’t my real mother.

But God had a different plan. The night I got the call, I was awakened several times by the image and voice of my grandmother, Darlene’s mother, telling me gently and clearly, “Be there.” When morning finally came I cried inconsolably for some time. The tears were not of sadness for Darlene; they were tears for me. I desperately did not want the job God was setting before me. This woman did not deserve the love and compassion only a child can provide a dying parent. She had walked away—twice. I was angry with God for asking me to do this.

But I am a Christian, and I try to live as a disciple of Christ. God was clear: I was to be Christ to her in her death. I was to show her that God loved her as much as God loves me. If God can love me in all of my screw-ups, God could surely love her in hers.

So, over the next six weeks I walked with my birth mother, helping her make her final arrangements and setting her affairs in order. I did what I could to bring healing and peace to her in her final days. She died on June 13.

Darlene never really apologized to anyone close to her, including me, for the wrongs she had done to them. I don’t know the state of her heart as she drew her last breath. I don’t know if she asked God’s forgiveness, but I can’t help but think she knew God loved her and forgave her because he gave her me.

Through this experience, I have learned that it doesn’t matter what theology books I read, how often I attend worship, or how much money I give to the church. God will use me in ways that are a joy and in ways that will draw out every ounce of strength and courage God can muster from me. My only task is to be obedient to both.