Yearning for a Name

What defines you? It's an interesting question, isn't it? There may be some answers that rattle off your tongue without hesitation or even conscious forethought. Other answers may seem deeper, embodying a more meaningful connection between your heart and your head. Still others may be completely hidden. These are the ones you only realize when you lose them. These are the pebbles of identity to which you did not know you were clinging—at least not until you see them skipping across the river, thrown by a hand you don't know. You watch them disappear into the swirling water, knowing there's no chance you'll ever find them again. You miss their cool, smooth surface as you realize with bitterness that your hands are now empty. Somehow you didn't think such a small thing could affect so much.

This is what happened to me a few years ago. It felt violent, inexplicable. All at once, the smallest anchors of my identity were torn from my hands—and I didn't even realize I was holding on to them. It happened as my parents separated and (in the course of time) divorced. The pain of a broken family is one that you probably cannot know unless you've experienced it, but let me introduce you to a bit of the taste.

For me, it started with a deep, inexpressible, and undefinable sadness. There was an aching sense of responsibility for my siblings, a desperate desire to reach out to somebody—or maybe for somebody to reach out to me (I didn't know which)—and an almost distant confusion over how to process everything that happened. It almost seemed like the world was moving on without me, blaring its whistle as it huffed and puffed out of the station, leaving me on the bench, drained to an emotionless and staring shadow that not one passenger on the machine seemed to notice.

What about the "identity pebbles," you ask? The realization of their former existence came in the most usually trivial questions. A waiter asks how many are in your party and receives blank stares. It was six...but now, um, we'll have to count. How many? I don't know. A new professor asks where you're from. Well, one parent lives in one city. I grew up there. The other parent lives in another city. Where am I from? I don't know. A friend asks if you're free one weekend. I'm free 'til Sunday at 4:00, I guess. That's when we switch houses for the week. Am I free? I don't know. An application has a blank space for your name. I know my first name. I got my middle initial down. I know my last name legally, but it's kind of hard to write when there's so much weight to it now. What's my name? I don't know.

I'm sure there have been times when these seemingly simple questions have thrown you just like the pebbles in the beginning of this post. Your head spins and you wonder. Your arms flail in the swirling water, and the questioner just looks at you blankly. Your name? Come on. You've got to at least know your name.

But try as you might, you've got nothing. Your mind's blank, and your hands begin to grow clammy as each second passes—warning you of the fact that every bit of delay might mark you as increasingly awkward. You're lost. Who are you?

I want you to know, before I continue, that we're all yearning for a name. In some way, even the people who answer the simple questions easily and confidently are wondering where their identity really lies, what their name really is. Names are powerful. We don't need expert linguists to tell us that. We know that there's deep meaning in whatever group of sounds signifies our existence. Names tell us that we are known. They give us a chance to know. They help to define us as "us," as distinct from the "other." They have meaning. They have power.

But what happens when we don't know the answers to the questions? What happens when we really don't know our name?

I'm convinced that the whole thing is not so much a search as it is a return. We don't need to look for a name, you see. We just need to believe that the one we've got is really ours.

I read a story one time of a man called Innocent Smith. He gave a lecture about names. It was described as follows:

He began rationally enough by dealing with the two departments of place names and trade names, and he said...that the loss of all significance in names was an instance of the deadening of civilization. But he then went on calmly to maintain that every man who had a place name ought to go live in that place, and that every man who had a trade name ought instantly to adopt that trade; that people named after colours should always dress in those colours, and that people named after trees or plants...ought to surround and decorate themselves with these vegetables...What happened at the crucial moment was that the lecturer produced several horseshoes and a large iron hammer from his bag, announced his immediate intention of setting up a smithy in the neighborhood, and called on every one to rise in the same cause as for a heroic revolution.¹

This story really hadn't much to do with the rest of the book itself, but I think we can draw much from it. No, you don't have to be a blacksmith if your name is "Smith" any more than I must live in a meadow ("Dupree"). But we really must return to the name we've been given by One much greater than whoever it was that gave us our surnames. This must be our "heroic revolution."

You see, my friends, the name we must return to is simple and pure and true. It is short and easy to remember, but our forgetfulness of its significance "was an instance of the deadening of civilization," the deadening of our very selves. Live again, then, and remember that this one word is your name. And this is enough. Note that again: this name is enough. You don't need the little pebbles of identity when you have this rock. In fact, you become overwhelmingly grateful when you see those other pebbles disappearing into the gentle current of the river. You might even be the one to throw them. This name is enough—more than enough. Grasp it.

Beloved child, you are HIS.

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¹ The story is from a little book written by G.K. Chesterton and entitled Manalive. If you haven't read it, then read it now. It's short and ridiculously humorous—yet its message is life-changing. 

The Next Part of the Story

The future is a funny thing, isn't it? You never know quite what to expect, really. Yet, there are those parts you generally could expect—or at least logically guess as a result of the natural course of life and the law of cause and effect. But those parts are the ones that always seem to creep up on you. Those are the parts you never seem to anticipate actually happening to you, even if you have no idea why you should be exempt from them.

One of those parts crept up on me recently, on the nineteenth of January, to be exact. Somehow the earth managed to go around the sun another time (as my roommate so kindly informed me), and, apparently, I turned twenty. Who knew?

I started this blog in 2012, thinking I had come up with the perfect title: "Thoughts of an Abnormal Teenage Girl." I was convinced that it described me (as well as the general purpose of my internet writings) quite well. This year, however, I hit a bit of a speed bump. Though I can give you my report cards from high school to confirm that I really can do math, the thought honestly never crossed my mind that there would come a day when the counting of years-since-birth would culminate in a total beyond the conceivable allowance for the classification "teenager." Alas, the title would have to change.

At first, this realization was not easy. Not one person had any good news concerning the concept of "twenty." I talked with a lot of people too. "Life only goes downhill from here," they said. "Oh, yeah. That's the prime. Enjoy those days while they last." "You're so old." "Your bones are creaking." Thank you, thank you, thank you. Hmmph.

But as I reflected on the story that has been my life so far, as I bowed in humble thanks before my Savior for the twenty years He has given me to walk this earth and to learn to know Him, I realized that life is indeed not changing much nor over at all but merely continuing in the peace, love, joy, and beauty that has characterized it from the beginning. That's what happens when you walk with God. You see in the past the perfection of His narrative and can look forward to a future that is every bit as perfectly written as the rest of His-story.

Thus, I found that I could look upon this change as yet another chance to admire His perfect prose. What would He do next? I tread this new path carefully, turning over various titles in my head, staring blankly at walls as I pieced words together, and praying for days as I wondered over the journey of this blog, its purpose, its message, its future, and the necessity of finding a new name that described it all. I believe an answer came, as you can now see at the top of the page, but I thought I'd share with you some of the background of this step in the hope that—together—we can grasp its full meaning.

The word "together" is an important one. I pause here to sincerely thank all whose eyes take in the lettering of this line; your willingness to engage with my writing is such a blessing. I view this as a partnership, I value your input, and I thank you for walking with me as we learn—slowly but surely—how to look at life well—perhaps, even, from a new perspective.

That's what this new title is all about, really: taking a new perspective. I'm convinced it's a perspective that comes when you experience the forgiveness, the acceptance, the redemption, and the power of that new life that is life with Christ. When His love washes over you, cleansing and restoring every part of your being, you can't help but see the world, yourself, your fellow humans, and your blessed Savior through a brand new lens—a lens of hope.

I call it an "eyeglass of hope" here. I like the ring better. I also like the subtle connotation of history that the word "eyeglass" conveys. It brings images of the ancient monocle to my mind—but also (I suppose) embodies the various forms of corrective lenses used today to help us see better. I think hope does help us see better. Our eyes behold a truer reality when we view it through the beauty of the death and resurrection of Jesus. There is hope, and when we look at Jesus, we can see it.

But the monocle also adds another level of meaning. It sat only on one eye, remember? One could squint to look through it, but it did not provide perfect vision. It did not enable you to see everything. I think this is the case for us too. "For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known" (I Corinthians 13:12, KJV). By God's grace, we can catch a glimpse of what the world looks like through His eyes, through a lens of hope. There are dark days and lots of clouds sometimes, and we cannot always see as clearly as we would like. But my hope in this blog is to give you a chance to rub the smudges off your monocle, to take a deep breath, and to look—if only for a moment—through an eyeglass of hope.

Christ truly provides a new perspective when you choose to find your home in His love. Let's continue the journey of knowing that together.

"Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from Him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will not be shaken." —Psalm 62:5-6 (NIV 1984)

A Perfect Plan

Wander back with me to about 1400 B.C. You are standing at the edge of a quiet camp, looking at the tall towers of a nearby city in the moonlight. You bite your lip and wonder at the small flame of nervousness that has ignited in the pit of your stomach. What would the morning bring?

You have been told to conquer this city, to destroy it and all the other cities in the land of Canaan. It would be an act of devotion to your God. But how? How does one totally destroy a city with thick walls 30 feet high and a great number of people very much wanting to not be destroyed? You look at the city again. The gates had been closed for awhile now—and not just because it was night. The people were terrified, and you hadn't even begun to attack yet. You chuckle to yourself. At least your seemingly impossible plans wouldn't require a defensive side!

Speaking of "impossible"...Your mind flickers back to the events of a few days prior. No one would ever have guessed that anybody would have made it across the Jordan River during the flood season, let alone two million people on dry ground. You wipe your brow with the back of your hand. That mission had seemed impossible, and yet YHWH had it covered the whole time. Surely, then, He could handle this next one too.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a rustle to your left. You look up quickly and are quite surprised to find a man standing before you with a drawn sword. You step closer to him slowly, squinting in the moonlight in a fruitless attempt to recognize the face. "Are you for us or for our enemies?" you ask.

"Neither," the stranger replies, "but as commander of the army of the LORD I have now come." Aware at last of the holy identity of your nocturnal visitor, you lose no time in introducing your face to the ground which had been, seconds before, beneath your feet. "What message does my Lord have for his servant?" you ask, your head still low.

"Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy," the messenger advised. You follow his instructions then listen eagerly for the rest. "See, I have delivered Jericho into your hands," your LORD continued, "along with its king and its fighting men. March around the city once with all the armed men. Do this for six days. Have seven priests carry trumpets of rams' horns in front of the ark. On the seventh day, march around the city seven times, with the priests blowing the trumpets. When you hear them sound a long blast on the trumpets, have all the people give a loud shout; then the wall of the city will collapse and the people will go up, every man straight in."

Oh. So that's how the impossible would happen.

One week of walking in circles and trumpeting, a final shout, and Jericho was down. Whaddaya know? It worked. All your worries about organizing a siege or discovering the best angle at which to attack the great city proved pointless. YHWH had it this time too. And now the rest of the land was shaking in its boots, The Canaanites had been afraid enough of the millions who had poked their heads up from the desert sands, but now they knew that their destruction was imminent and that it could happen unexpectedly one day through only a bit of walking and shouting. The fear of the unknown would be paralyzing.

You smile as you realize just how perfectly the whole thing had been planned out—and not just this event but all the ones you could remember watching YHWH write: the great escape from Egypt, the crossing of the Red Sea...Even the wilderness wanderings had had a purpose. Now you stood in the Promised Land at last, with one great city checked off the list. You take a deep breath, rejoicing in the perfect air of the land you and your people were beginning to call your own, and joyfully remember the words of your faithful Leader. "Have I not commanded you?" he had said. "Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go."

Your next few years would not be easy, but Jericho would be a constant reminder that YHWH would win. Worry and fear could crumble just like its sturdy walls, for YHWH's plans never fail.

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All quotations are taken from the book of Joshua; chapters 1, 5, and 6; New International Version (1984).

The Greatest Joy of Christmas

"This is how the birth of Jesus Christ came about: His mother Mary was pledged to be married to Joseph, but before they came together, she was found to be with child through the Holy Spirit. Because Joseph her husband was a righteous man and did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her quietly. But after he had considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, 'Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.' All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet: 'The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel'—which means, 'God with us.'" —Matthew 1:18-23 (NIV 1984)

*****

God with us. Can you believe it?

God, YHWH—the holy and almighty Creator of the universe—with us—the distracted, dirty, disheveled creatures whose weak eyes are so busy examining the gravel beneath our feet that the glory of the skies and the King who has come are wonders that somehow never enter our field of vision.

Oh, Lord, would you—would you really kneel down to meet us? Would your perfect knees find a place on our silly gravel? Would your gentle hands really lift our chins to teach our eyes to know yours at last?

But that's His name, you see. He is Immanuel. He has come to dwell with us despite the odds against it, and that's the message of Christmas.

It's so easy these days to forget that, even when we talk about it. We write Bible verses on our Christmas cards, we see Nativity scenes all over the place, we sing all the old Christmas carols until our voices crack. But do we ever really get it? Even now, as I write this, I wonder if I get it. Immanuel. God with us. Oh, God, would you calm our rushing minds, close our anxious eyes, and quiet our pounding hearts? Would you teach us again how to be still and know that you are God with us?

I'm old enough now to taste the bittersweet crumbs of what the holiday season seems to be for adults. No matter how beautifully happy some moments may be, there is an inescapable twinge of sadness—often only a very small one, but it is there. I don't know what it is for you, but I do know that sugar cookies, candy canes, shining gifts, and perfect trees don't make it any better.

But I wonder...What if we began to take to heart what "God with us" really means? What if we realized the offer that rests before us on the open hand of our King?

The tiny baby whose birthday we celebrate today grew up, of course. He holds out His hands—scarred ones now, we know—ever asking us to accept the offer He has given, to know the life that springs from "God with us." "I've loved you the way my Father has loved me," he says. "Make yourselves at home in my love" (John 15:9, MSG).

I don't know what life holds for you right now. But there is a peace and joy that you can know, and it comes with Christmas. Sit for a minute and realize the truth that Immanuel is here. God is with us, and we are home—right here, right now—in His love. Let that be your joy today and every day to come. All the cookies and kin that present themselves before your gaze become grander gifts when bathed in the light of what Christmas really means. Rejoice, rejoice! Immanuel has come.