There's something pure about our bloodline: There are no

“There’s something pure about our bloodline: There are no accidental kids of gay parents. Every single gay parent desperately, passionately wanted to be a parent. That’s neat, and I hope we can keep it that way.”
So spoke B. D. Wong, a man whose words shine like a beacon of love and intention. His declaration is not only about family, but about the sacred nature of choice, of yearning, of love born not of chance but of deep and deliberate will. In these words lies a truth both ancient and eternal: that to create life is not only to give birth to flesh, but to give birth to devotion, purpose, and sacrifice.

In the old days, the ancients believed that the gods themselves shaped families through fate. Children came like the wind — sometimes welcomed, sometimes unforeseen. Yet here, Wong speaks of a new and sacred kind of lineage — a bloodline of intent, not of accident. For gay parents, every child is a miracle not stumbled upon, but fought for. There are no careless beginnings, no unintended cradles. Each child is the fruit of longing, courage, and faith against the tides of doubt. Such love is forged not in the ease of nature’s course, but in the furnace of determination.

This purity of intention — this conscious act of creation — is what Wong calls “neat,” though the word glows with deeper meaning. It is not mere neatness of circumstance, but of spirit. It is the cleanliness of love unsullied by obligation or accident. When one must fight for the right to parent, when the world itself stands in judgment, the desire becomes sacred, sharpened, and true. This is a love that has already endured trial before it has even begun. It is love proven worthy of the name.

Consider the story of Harvey Milk, one of the first openly gay men elected to public office in America. In his time, to live as himself was already an act of rebellion; to love openly was an act of war. Yet Milk dreamed not of power, but of belonging — a world where every kind of family could flourish without fear. Though he did not raise a child of his own, his courage gave birth to generations of families who could. His death, like a seed planted in darkness, gave rise to a garden of hope — one in which today’s gay parents raise children not in shame, but in pride, knowing they were chosen, desired, and beloved long before they were born.

In the ancient way, bloodlines were traced through strength and conquest. Dynasties were built upon names and inheritances. But in the bloodline of love, as Wong describes, the true inheritance is not gold or title, but the certainty of being wanted. Imagine a child growing under such truth — to know, from the first breath, that they were not an accident of chance, but the answer to a prayer whispered across years. Such a soul walks through life with unshakable worth, for they were born not just of nature, but of will.

And yet, this purity carries a burden — the hope that it remains unbroken. Wong’s wish, that “we can keep it that way,” is both a blessing and a warning. For as the world grows in acceptance, as adoption and surrogacy become easier, there is danger that the sacred weight of intention could fade into routine. Let not the struggle that once sanctified this love be forgotten. Let future parents, gay or straight, never lose the awareness that raising a child is a holy vow, a covenant between souls.

So let this truth be passed down: Parenthood is not defined by blood, but by choice. To bring forth life — whether by birth, by adoption, or by devotion — is to take part in the divine act of creation. Let those who seek to be parents do so with open eyes and open hearts, not by accident, but by intention. And let those born of such intention