In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus is famously recorded to have said this to the crowds who followed him:

While He was still speaking to the crowds, behold, His mother and brothers were standing outside, seeking to speak to Him. [Someone said to Him, “Look, Your mother and Your brothers are standing outside, seeking to speak to You.”]  But Jesus replied to the one who was telling Him and said, “Who is My mother, and who are My brothers?” And extending His hand toward His disciples, He said, “Behold: My mother and My brothers! For whoever does the will of My Father who is in heaven, he is My brother, and sister, and mother.” (Matthew 12:46-50, NASB)

In a discussion section for a religious studies course I took during my sophomore year of college, one of my classmates expressed his perplexity at this passage. How could Jesus not only assert himself above someone’s family, but command that of his followers?

I attempted to address my classmate’s question with an acknowledgment that I too did not have an answer. However, what I was trying to articulate but did not have the language for at the time was that the richest families are ones aligned in shared will, heart, and soul. Moreover, that the deepest love to be found in a family is a glimpse toward the culmination of love to be found in what Jesus Christ, a man who is fully God, feels for each one of us.

I realized the value of the family relationships that I took for granted when college friends would tell me about their parents. Some of them, particularly when I was in groups that happened to be Asian American, made generalizing statements in attempts to form lighthearted relationality. “You know, I imagine we all struggle to talk to our parents,” or “As Asian Americans, we all grew up under pressure.” I encountered variations of such statements in other social and cultural settings as well: a peer expressing anger or frustration at a sibling through degrading language during a late night at the campus diner, references to parental and relative abuse during evening rehearsals for a performance I was part of.

I don’t want to take away from the realities of cultural nuances and patterns, and from the realities of unhealthy and abusive home environments that must be left, which deserve their own further discussions. But I want to acknowledge that what I felt during moments like those, when generalizations about distance and difficulty were employed in ways that did not apply to me, was bittersweet dissonance. I thought of how, during my first two years of college, I called my mother, my sister, and my family altogether almost constantly. I thought of the blessing and privilege it is to feel like I can bring my heart to my family, and have it be fully accepted.

This form of acceptance is not an easy one. It is a daily practice, an hourly practice, that we engage in with one another. But it is one that we commit to with joy. While in graduate school, my college-age sister asks if I can call on certain nights, and I do the same. One time while calling with a particularly burdened heart, she apologized: the topic of our conversation, the cause of her grief, was something that clearly affected my emotions deeply too. “Sorry,” she said multiple times, for placing something painful on me, but I was one of the only people she could trust to listen.

I told her the truth: “To be completely honest, I am affected. But if it becomes too much, I’ll let you know.” Even as it did tax me to hear certain things, I did not want her to deal with them alone. My sister also shared this posture. When it came time that I wanted to share some anxieties, she listened, took them in as her own, and sat with me through them.

These exchanges do not occur on the premise of transactions. I do not listen because I expect to be listened to in return, nor does my sister. But more and more with each passing year, I find myself looking toward the image of Christ on the cross, who loved his brothers and sisters so much that he died without demanding anything in return. To make such a radical move of care for another person is a leap of faith. It is imbued with risk. Yet, there is a beautiful power to be found in acknowledging the tenderness with which you care for that person who is—those people who are—so present in your life.

As I think of my family—of the words and identifiers that fail to do justice to our colorful tapestry—I am overwhelmed by the love that permeates our daily decision to be a family. Every day, we say “yes” in acceptance of the gifts God has given us: each other. This is our confidence when words fail, when communities fall short, and when good feelings wane. We are so unique and so particular, flawed and earnest and delightfully strange; it is a beautiful thing to love someone for all that they are.