Thirty.

I'm turning thirty soon, and no one is more shocked about it than me.  My younger sister turned 27 on November 2nd, and I kept wondering how that could be possible, since I was convinced that I was also 27. "How can Abby be 27 if I am 27?" I sat very still for a few minutes trying to figure out how both of us could be the same age when up to this point I have always been three years older.  Then, as I registered myself for a class at the YMCA later that day, my registration page accosted me with the news that, according to her birthdate, Hannah J. Bemis is 29 years old.  WHAT.

For the last three years on my birthday, my parents have commented on my Facebook page that "having a ___ -year-old daughter makes [them] feel so old."  This does not exactly make me feel young.  I remember when my parents were in their thirties.  I remember what they were doing, who they were friends with, what they had accomplished.  I keep asking myself if I have accomplished the same things, or more, or less.  Sometimes it drives me a little bit crazy.  My inner thoughts: "I don't really have a career yet, but I don't care about that.  Wait, is it fine that I don't care about that?  I should probably care more... it actually bothers me that I don't care more about that.  Okay, now I care.  I am officially caring about this now." On the topic of careers, wasn't it somewhere around age 30 that Jesus did all of his ministry on earth?  How is anyone supposed to compete with that!?

Aside from these mental/spiritual concerns, I have a whole new set of 30-year-old body concerns.  I have strange aches and pains after working out and after other activities such as sitting still and sleeping.  Sometimes holding my bladder is more of a struggle than it should be.  Sometimes I can't get up off the couch without letting out a small groan, like an old man. Sometimes I feel tired all the time.  I have a sneaking suspicion that many of these issues stem not from my age, but from my children.  Nevertheless, sometimes I spend too many minutes comparing signs of aging on my face with other people in my graduating class (Reason #227 why Facebook is a stinker.  I just said stinker, proving that I am a senior citizen). There are new, foreign little crinkles (not yet wrinkles, but "crinkles") at the corners of my eyes that weren't there three years ago.  Related question: when will I age out of acne?

I don't know how to dress a thirty-year-old body.  I'm starting to suspect that much of my wardrobe is age-inappropriate.  I read a fashion blog a young woman wrote about how no one over the age of 25 should shop in stores like H&M and Forever 21, and I felt very sad.  Am I relegated to department store women's sections now?  When will I be too old to shop at the Gap (maybe not for awhile...I recently read another blog about how Gap jeans are the new "Mom Jeans." Maybe I should stop reading fashion blogs (these are the only two fashion blogs I have ever read)). Where am I supposed to shop now?  J. Jill?  Lerners?  Someone direct me, please.  But keep in mind that my clothing budget actually does resemble a teenager's (see above where I mention I don't have a career).

I have an extremely unrealistic idea that I am the same age as every college student that I meet. I tutor on the Gonzaga University campus, and I like to imagine that I seamlessly blend in with all of the youthful faces surrounding me. We are basically the same, these cherubs and me, except I have no idea what "Snap-Chat" is, and they have no idea what "Dial-up internet" is. I am in solid denial that I am now 12 years older than a college freshman.

On a related note, it has recently been brought to my attention that my husband is elderly.  As proof, please observe his Christmas list:

• Underwear
• Socks
• Fingernail clippers
• Sensodyne
• Tweezers
• Flossers
• Work shirts
• Waffle maker
• Tide sport
• T shirts
• Drill

We're gonna have a rousing 2016.  

I can't even get away from the topic of aging when I read my Bible.  Last week I was reading Hosea Chapter 7, when Hosea is describing the unfaithful Israelites. "Worshiping foreign gods has sapped their strength, but they don't even know it.  Their hair is gray, but they don't realize they're old and weak" (vs. 9, NLT).  Next to this verse, I wrote the question: "Does serving God help us to age well?" I initially meant the question facetiously, but then I remembered a conversation I had with my mom when she visited a month ago.  I was sharing with her how astounded I am when I see pictures of myself looking much younger, only five years ago. I told her how weird it is to see pictures of myself today with those funny crinkly lines around my eyes.  

Today: crinkles

Five years ago: no crinkles. (Happy Thanksgiving!)

My mom agreed with me that she could see the difference in both Jordan and I, could see that these past five years of child bearing and child rearing have aged us a little bit.  But she said she could see that we had aged well.  Specifically, she said "You two have aged like people who have been loved well over the years." She explained that there is a different "look" about people who have been loved well by their spouses, by their families, by God.  The years still show on their faces, but there's a certain joy and contentment that also show, that cut through the years.  And I'm starting to see what she means.  I can look around me at people who are my age and see who has loved and been loved well (and who hasn't).  It's written on their faces.  Hard experiences tend to age us more quickly, but I'm observing how love can override both age and experience.  I have friends who struggle to get from paycheck to paycheck, who seem to get thrown some of life's hardest challenges, and yet they appear much younger than their age because they've held tightly to God and to their families.  They've let love cut through the harshness of the years, so their age shows in a softer, more kind way. The opposite is also true.  I can think of several people who have chosen to live lives without faith, without Jesus, without Love.  They often appear older than their actual years say they are.  

But this makes sense, right?  Jesus calls Himself the living water.  If this is true, won't our spirits just dry up without Him?  And if our spirits are dry, it's only a matter of time before our bodies follow suit.  In Jesus, we find the legendary fountain of youth.  When we choose Him, we become eternal beings, and that can't help but show, even in our temporal bodies.  So the answer to my question of whether serving God helps us to age well is an unequivocal YES.  Yes, choosing Jesus leads us to a lighter burden, an easier yoke, and even when the years and trials of life start to etch themselves into our faces and bodies, we can rest in the knowledge that we've been loved well, and that Love will etch itself into us even more deeply.

In all seriousness, (Jordan's Christmast list aside) I know that I'm not old yet.  Jordan and I have some of our best and greatest adventures in front of us; of this I am certain.  Part of choosing Jesus meant that I chose Jordan, and both of those guys have truly loved me well.  There's no one I'd rather spend this side of eternity with.  In celebration of our love, I think we're going to go eat waffles, floss our teeth and brush with Sensodyne, and go to bed early.  Goodnight!

Because it's our ninth anniversary

 

Yesterday I took the kids to Starbucks to pick out an end-of-the-year thank you gift for Asher’s preschool teacher.  The trip was a raving success, considering I left with a free iced latte and a free sparkly coffee tumbler, in addition to the gift I actually came in to buy.  Catching the spirit of generosity, I drove to Jordan’s work to give him the free latte.  When I told him how nice the (male) manager had been, he commented that the guy had probably been hitting on me.  I laughed out loud, remembering how the kids had been pulling thermoses off the shelves, jumping off of the comfy chairs, and turning everyone’s “third place” into a playground.  More than likely the manager had just felt sorry for me and wanted me out of there.  I looked into the backseat of the van at the three jelly-smeared faces and responded,  “Um, I don’t think so. Who would want all this?”  Without missing a beat, Jordan leaned in and kissed Nora’s forehead and said simply, “Me.” 

We’ve been married nine years today, but I think I fell in love with Jordan a little bit in the seventh grade. I was driving in the car with my parents and saw him out the window, walking home from school. I didn’t know anything about him, except his name, that he was a freshman in high school, and who his parents were (they worked with mine).  But I never forgot his face or his name, and when I started working with him at a frozen yogurt shop four years later, my future was pretty much sealed. 

I was wondering today what would have happened if I could have seen into the actual future that day in seventh grade, or that first day of working with Jordan when I was 16.  What if I’d seen a glimpse of Jordan’s today-self: 31 years old and filled out, with just a touch of gray in his sideburns, and the smile lines (from so, so many smiles) at the corners of his eyes.  And of course, with three crazy kids at his side.  Would I still have fallen in love with him, with the future laid out in front of me?  I don’t know, maybe.  Or maybe I would have been a little creeped out.  I wasn’t supposed to fall for 31-year-old Jordan at age 12 (gross), or 16 (still weird), or even age 20, when I finally married him.  I fell in love with who he was then, at each different stage of life.

You know how people have their friends hide somewhere so they can have cute engagement photos?  Yeah, I guess we didn't do that.  This is our self-taken engagement photo. Yes, this is exactly how I looked when I was proposed to. Every girl's dream. 

Falling in love isn’t a one-time thing.  It’s an every day, every year decision, choosing to love this living, ever-changing person you said you would love however many years ago.  Getting married really is the biggest step of faith, because you are saying you will love your spouse forever, when it’s a possibility that the person you’re pledging yourself to may not look like the same person at all in a few years, or decades. When you say your vows, you’re really saying, “I love you now, and I will choose to love you next year, and the next, and the next, no matter who you turn into. No matter how you change, for better or for worse.”   Some of us win the lottery with the way our spouses change, and for others, marriage ends up their greatest crucible.

For whatever undeserved reason, I’ve been hugely blessed.  When I got married, I loved Jordan’s innocent, boy-man 22-year-old self.  Today, I love his wiser but still child-like 31-year-old self.  I love that he brings fun into every room he enters.  I love that he can work all day at an emotionally taxing job and still come home with joy.  I love that he always tells me I look pretty (he has improved at this over the years).  He’s even taught our sons to do this (maybe a little too well; a few weeks ago the mom of a little girl in Asher’s preschool class informed me that Asher had sweetly told her daughter that she looked so pretty that day. “What four year old says that?” she laughed). I love who Jordan is as a Daddy.  I love all of him. 

I will romanticize unapologetically today, because it’s my ninth anniversary and I am proud of us.  I’m proud of all of you who are working hard (some, perhaps, harder than others) to stay married.  Marriage might be the greatest risk one can take, but it often has the greatest rewards.  It’s certainly given me the very sweetest of rewards (and I’m not just talking about my kids…but they’re pretty great, too).    

Jordan, I love you!  Happy Anniversary to the best decision (short of Jesus, DUH) that I ever made.    

This was taken on my birthday, just hours before Jordan proposed.  This restaurant always sang to you and made you wear a fish hat on your birthday: ultimate humiliation for me.  Jordan wore the hat while they sang so I didn't have to.  Now that, friends, is love.

Beauty in the Mess

“Uhh, honey? You may not want to go in there,” was my husband’s kind warning to me as I headed toward our home office. I pushed open the door with a wince. As I had feared, the room had been invaded by our two-year-old twins, Nora and Abel. They’d discovered the box where I had neatly filed our family photographs from the past ten years, and had thoroughly un-filed them. Every square inch of carpet in the office was covered in pictures; my formerly organized box now one huge, disorganized collage. Overwhelmed by yet another mess, I sank to the floor.

Working from home with three small children is super easy and nothing ever goes wrong. #oppositeday

I adore my kids. I would not trade them for anything. But sometimes I do feel like trading this stage of life. This season of raising preschoolers – the screaming fits in public places, the endless picking up of messes that will be made again in seconds, the not being able to get a word (or thought) in edgewise, the worries surrounding discipline and diet and sleep patterns and wanting to get it all just right – this season has me fighting hard to find peace in all of the chaos. I find myself grasping for joy and feeling guilty that it doesn’t come more readily. I desperately want to see my glass as half full, but too many days it appears to be half empty and draining fast.

As I sat on the office floor that day, summoning the strength to pick up one more mess, I began to realize what I was surrounded by. Pictures of our family’s sweetest moments were everywhere, all the years now blended together. A picture of Jordan and me at my high school prom slightly overlapped a photo of us holding baby Asher in the hospital. Next to these were several photos of Nora and Abel as tiny babies, sharing a crib. And underneath those were photos of Jordan leading worship in Nepal, and then both of us doing missions work in Africa. Our entire life was in front of me as a beautiful mosaic, and I never would have seen it all at once had my babies not dumped out my meticulously ordered box.

Once again, God reveals beauty in the mess. Once again, I’m reminded that life, my life, is full of joy. Every season has its messes, but there is beauty in every mess. I’ve been trying to see my glass as half full, forgetting that with God, the glass is neither half full nor half empty. It is always overflowing.

Note: This post originally appeared as an article at openbiblemessage.org

We Need You

When I was a little girl, I never understood why my mom would go grocery shopping alone, without my three siblings and me. Now that I am a mother, I get it. Nevertheless, I recently found myself at the grocery store early in the morning with my own three small children. I have a four-year-old son and twins who at that time were one year old. I was optimistically believing that God would work a miracle and no crises would occur. 

We’d gotten home from a long road trip late the night before, and we badly needed groceries. Hygiene hadn’t really been our top priority that morning. No one’s teeth or hair had been brushed, and my two sons, Asher and Abel, were still in their pajamas. None of the kids were wearing shoes. My one-year-old daughter Nora was wearing a skirt with no tights underneath. Besides the excellent front view of her diaper that this provided for all other shoppers, her outfit also showcased the magic marker masterpiece she had drawn on her legs in the car the night before, when my husband and I were too tired to care what the kids were doing, so long as they were quiet.

The kids were exhausted, and were crying their way through the store when an elderly couple approached us. The wife, holding her walker in front of her, immediately began talking to Nora, telling her what a pretty girl she was. The husband took on the boys, trying to guess their names, stealing their noses, pulling things out of their ears, and confusing them just enough to distract them from their crying. The couple returned to their shopping only when my children were calmed, telling me again how beautiful my children were (despite the fact that on that morning they looked homeless). 

This interaction was enough to get me through the rest of the shopping trip, even the part where my four-year-old son Asher had a bathroom emergency right as I was checking out. I had to leave my full cart unmanned, carry my screaming twins inside the bathroom, let them stand barefoot in a public bathroom in order to help Asher get on the potty, yank Nora’s hands out of the potty, wash all hands, make a mental note to wash all children in a sanitizing bath at home, all while avoiding eye contact with anyone, so I wouldn’t have to see their looks of alarm. The gentle, unspoken blessing of the sweet older couple allowed me to swallow my screams in that moment and instead respond with soft-spoken horror, making the best of yet another insane moment with my three littles. 

To those of you whose children are raised – whether you are a new or veteran empty-nester, whether you are retired or still working, whether you are bored or busy – we need you! You are needed in the church, needed in the grocery store, needed in the homes of your children and grandchildren. Seeing you reminds those of us who are still in the trenches of child-rearing that there is life ahead of us, and that the life we are currently living is a blessing and not a curse. Your approval, your blessing - they are life to us. Your ability to look past our mess and see the beauty beneath teaches us to do the same. Your cheesy jokes, gentle words, and chatty observations about the weather take our minds off of how crazy we must look and make us feel human again. You remind us that we are not alone, but are just one part of God’s huge family.  

Thank you for your humor and wisdom. Thank you for continuing to live a fun and good life, sharing fond memories of the past while continuing to live joyfully in the present. You have so much to give, so many blessings to offer. You are a crucial part of church, family, and community. I want to be you when I grow up.

Note: This blog originally appeared as an article at openbiblemessage.org 

Big Dreams

My four-year-old son Asher dreams of seeing God face to face. He also dreams of being a garbage collector someday. Of the two, I have actually found myself more fearful of the former dream. Why? Because it’s so BIG! When Asher first shared with me his longing to see God, I found myself wanting to warn him that most people don’t get to see God, at least not in the way he means. I was scared that if he never saw God he would be disappointed, and he would lose his faith as a result.

Shame on me! By trying to protect Asher’s faith, I was essentially going to weaken what was already a radical, unadulterated, childlike faith. I was going to pull his big dreams down to something I could swallow, something I could bless because it was doable and safe, and free of risk. I was just being a mom, trying to protect my kid. But what if by trying to protect my kids from their own big dreams, I am actually squashing their ability to live the big, exhilarating, world-shaking lives God wants them to live?

I believe our job as parents is to bless the big dreams of our kids, to encourage them rather than tame them down. This is hard, because as parents our gut instinct is to shield our kids from anything that could be painful. We have to trust that God is able to do more in our children’s lives than we can even imagine, and that even if our kids do find themselves disappointed at some point, God will be there to walk them through that.

That dream your daughter has to be a princess or to be the president? Bless it. Your son dreams of being a super-hero? Bless it. Your tone-deaf 18-year-old son dreams of trying out for American Idol? Well…I never said there wasn’t a place for loving intervention. My point is: our children’s larger-than-life dreams just may have been planted in them by God. As our kids keep hearing from God over the years their dreams may change a bit, but if we crush the seeds of those dreams now we could be crushing something God gave life to.

“Now glory be to God, who by his mighty power at work within us is able to do far more than we would ever dare to ask or even dream of – infinitely beyond our highest prayers, desires, thoughts or hopes”
(Ephesians 3:20, TLB)

Dreaming things that are impossible to do without God’s help – that is faith! And allowing our kids to dream these types of dreams without setting a safety net in place – that is faith, too. And, honestly? I could use a little boost to my faith. The biggest dream I have right now is that one day I’ll be able to go to the bathroom without one of my kids nearly dying while I do. Let’s allow our kids’ big faith to stretch our own, and to remind us that God wants all of us to dream big with Him.

Other verses that inspired this blog: Jeremiah 32:27; Psalm 2:8; and Psalm 37:4.

Note: This blog originally appeared as an article at openbiblemessage.org

When Two People Don't Dream Alike

 

I recently had the opportunity to write a post on the World Relief Spokane blog page. You can check it out here! 

I think it’s clear from my blog post there, and also from numerous Facebook posts, that I’m pretty crazy about World Relief and the people who work there. I love their heart, their vision, their passion, and their compassion. I adore the World Relief Spokane employees my husband works with. They love so well. I’ve watched them show love to the refugees they serve, to my husband as their employee and coworker, and to our family. 

But Jordan and I didn’t always live in Spokane, and Jordan didn’t always work for World Relief. In fact, three years ago we hadn’t even heard of the organization. I want to tell you the story of how God set Jordan up with this job, because it’s one of my favorite stories. It’s a love story, really.

When I first met Jordan, circa 2002, I was only fifteen years old, and he was eighteen. At that time, he was passionate about Scotland and spicy food, both of which foreshadowed his future passion for world cultures. At that time, Jordan’s dreams of traveling and trying food from all over the globe seemed intriguing and fun to me, but cloaked in his general enthusiasm for all of life, they didn’t seem all that serious. Fast forward a few years, and Jordan had, in fact, fallen fast and hard in love with missions work and with people from cultures around the world. And I’d fallen fast and hard in love with him. But the whole missionary thing?  No, thanks.  I’d been on a few uncomfortable trips to other countries, and while the memories I had of loving and learning from people around the world were precious, each trip reminded me how much I really loved my own country. My homesickness always seemed to outweigh my delight in the culture I was currently experiencing. I wanted to stay close to family; I wanted to pursue ministry, counseling, writing, teaching, all from the comfort of home. 

This fresh-faced baby was Jordan in Nepal, shortly before we got engaged. Nothing gets that guy more excited than meeting people from all over the world. That and eating their food. 

This disparity between Jordan’s dreams and my own were frightening to me. I knew I wanted to marry this man, and he wanted to marry me. But why would God have placed us together if one of us would have to sacrifice our dream, our happiness, for the other? I remember crying on the floor of my friend’s dorm room in college, afraid that God was asking me to make a sacrifice I was unable to make. I wasn’t sure if that sacrifice was my own dreams, or whether it was Jordan himself. I didn’t really find a lot of answers that night, but I did find peace. Over time, I felt God saying “Yes” to my relationship with Jordan, and saying “Yes,” to our future together, although I still had no idea what that would look like. 

In college, we and some of our best friends would have "International Dinner Nights" where we would all make a dish from a different country, and with our (very) limited resources, dress like that country. I think Jordan is mixing Hawaii and Nepal here. I'm feeling confused about this. 

This is shortly after we were married and traveled to Uganda together on a mission trip. I am loving the sweet girl in my arms and seeing the beauty around me, but I am simultaneously longing for home.

For the first few years of our marriage, Jordan and I finished our bachelors and masters degrees, my focus in teaching and Jordan’s in cross-cultural communication. His heart for cross-cultural ministry had only grown stronger, and as we had our first son, my desire to stay in the U.S. had never been stronger, either. As Jordan neared the end of his masters program, he began pursuing options for his final internship. It was kind of by accident that a friend of ours, with no connection to Jordan’s school, told him about this non-profit organization that his dad’s friend worked for.  Some organization called World Relief that focused on helping refugees assimilate into the United States. That sounded cool, and none of the other internships had panned out, so he went for it. He spent the next nine months working in a tiny local office with two Armenian women who were the only two employees, driving all over L.A. and meeting people from all over the world. And he couldn’t have loved it more. 

To make this already too-long story a little bit shorter, when Jordan graduated, he applied to almost every World Relief office in the U.S., for every job opening. He got the job in Spokane, and we packed up our tiny apartment and moved, both of us giddy with joy. 

In case God’s kindness to us is not already obvious, I would love to spell it out for you (honestly, I love talking about it!). Jordan wanted to work with people from all over the world, and I wanted to stay in the U.S. As a case manager for World Relief, the world comes to Jordan. He still gets to work cross-culturally, from the comfort of home. Jordan could never settle on one culture that he loved the most, so he could never get a clear picture on where he would want to do missions. World Relief works with cultures from all over.  He gets to taste it all (I mean this literally; every week he comes home bragging about how his clients feed him delicious food from their native countries). Jordan is also the most welcoming, disarmingly friendly person, perhaps in the world. His job at World Relief is to welcome people who have fled their own countries, and to help them find a home in his own country. His personality is so wired for that. There are countless other ways that it seems this job was custom created for Jordan – for both of us, really. It is almost three years later, and we are both still giddy with joy. 

God is for your dreams. He is for your biggest, best dreams, and even more. “God…is able to do far more than we would ever dare to ask or even dream of – infinitely beyond our highest prayers, desires, thoughts or hopes.” (Eph. 3:20).  Dream big, and dream with God, because He can dream even bigger than you can. I had no idea how God would fulfill Jordan’s dreams and my own, but He knew, and He did. 

God is for marriages. For those of you who are married: If you have sought and followed God’s leading in your relationship, obeyed Him as best as you know how, then He will fight to keep you and your spouse together. He will join your callings. He will unite your dreams. He will take even the most inharmonious of your separate desires and will craft them into a sweet song that has never been heard before. The kingdom of God will be stronger for the two of you being and dreaming together. If you trust him, if you keep listening, keep praying for strength to obey, and love your spouse with all of your ability, I am here to tell you that He can make it work.  

And the exciting part is that God isn’t finished dreaming yet. My heartbeat is getting stronger for the world, and for these diverse, courageous, big-spirited people that my husband welcomes into our country. The thought of living overseas doesn’t horrify me as much. Sometimes I start getting a little excited about Scotland and spicy food. Who knows where we’ll be in ten years?  God does.  And He has promised that it will be good. 

You can rest in his promises, friends, and you can trust Him with your dreams. 

What's In A Name?

One of the reasons I was most excited to have children was to name them. When I became pregnant for the first time, circa 2009, I purchased a large book of name meanings, and began pouring over it.  To me, it is a weighty matter, this naming of humans.  Whether we choose to name our children after someone we love or admire, or whether we choose a name because we love what it means, or simply because we like the way it sounds, we are labeling a person for life. What a responsibility!

One would think that I would choose my children's nicknames with the same intentionality and love with which I chose their true names.  Especially since I often call them by these nicknames far more often than I call them by their actual names.  My first son, Asher, has the most nicknames and they make the least sense. He is "Bean," "Beany," "Beany Baby," "Asher-Doo," "Sugar-boy," "Sugar Biffin," "Ash-a-smash," and so many more.  At least none of these are unkind.  My twins, Nora and Abel, have nicknames that make more sense, but they are far less flattering.  At first, I simply called Nora "Little," because her build was petite.  That was cute.  Unfortunately, as her brother filled out and grew hair, and she remained skinny and bald, "Little" morphed into "Gollum." (If you don't know this reference, we should be friends.)  On the flip side, Nora's twin brother Abel was originally dubbed "Cutes McGee," (the "cute" part is self-explanatory, the "McGee" is entirely without meaning).  As he filled out and Nora became Gollum, Abel became "Fats McGee."  Now, before you judge me, I should be clear that these names stay within the home.  I don't go to the grocery store talking baby talk to Gollum and Fats McGee.  My entourage and I get enough stares as it is. 

Sugar-boy

Fats and Gollum

A fascination with names runs in my family, at least as far back as my maternal grandmother. I had always known my Grandma's name to be Juanita Jernigan, but she was born Beulah Orndoff.  At the time of her birth, her parents worked for Camp Beulah, a Christian campground whose owners thought it would be great if their pregnant employees would name their child after the campground.  Makes sense. (Wait, what?) The camp owners offered financial compensation in the form of a furnished nursery for the first family to take them up on the offer, which sounded like a sweet deal to my great-grandparents. Come August 1935, baby Beulah Orndoff was born.  Unfortunately, my Grandma hated her name, largely due to teasing from her class-mates about its origin.  At the ripe old age of 8, she begged her mom to let her pick a new name.  Her mother, understandably unattached to the name, agreed, and Grandma renamed herself Juanita Darlene Orndoff.

Names matter to people.  An article in The Week Magazine called names our "badges bearing information about our class, education level, and ethnic origin."  People believe certain things about us based on our names, and these beliefs (even if inaccurate) have the potential to shape our lives.  The article traces the importance of our names back to the Romans, who had the saying, "nomen est omen, or 'name is destiny.'

Names help people to know who we are, and we all want to be known.  I was reminded of this when talking with my baby (17-year-old) sister Deborah, who recently moved from a tiny town in rural Canada to big ol' Dallas, Texas.  She went from living in a place where everyone knew who she was and what she was about, to a place where no one in her massive high school even knows her name (at least not yet - this is no ordinary girl we're talking about here).  While our name may not say everything about who we are, if someone can call us by our name, we feel like we have been seen, and valued, even if only for a moment.  Maybe this is why it's such a precious idea to people that God knows our name.  He can pick us out of a crowd, and out of the billions of people on Earth, he knows each one of us intimately enough to call us by name.

What a sweet truth, and yet, God's been showing me that there is more to this idea than I originally thought.  Yes, God knows us by the names given to us by our parents.  But he has also never been limited by the names on our birth certificates.  In the Bible, while Hebrew culture clearly considered naming children a serious matter, there are many occasions when God seemed to hold earthly names rather loosely.  Take the apostle Peter; he'd grown up with the name Simon.  A good, solid Hebrew name, one that had served him well enough for thirty plus years. One day, Jesus up and renames him Peter, meaning "the rock": "On this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.  I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven” (Matt. 16:18). Bam.  Simon was an okay name for an impulsive, flaky fisherman; Peter was the perfect name for a passionate, unshakable world changer.

Another of my favorites is Gideon. God (or an angel of God) finds Gideon hiding from his enemies in his family's winepress, living in a home that is filled with pagan gods.  Gideon knows what is right but is too afraid to do anything about it.  And yet, the way the angel greets Gideon is, "The Lord is with you, mighty warrior." Gideon kindly informs the angel that he is, in fact, the weakest member of the entire nation of Israel, and he even tries to prove it by being cowardly on several future occasions.  And yet, the Lord stubbornly, purposefully calls him "mighty warrior" instead of something more appropriate, like "weak sauce."  He doesn't call him what he is, he calls him what he is meant to be. 

God doesn't call us what we are, He calls us what we are meant to be.  Yes, he knows us by name, but that holds deeper meaning than simply knowing us by the name everyone else calls us.  He knows our God-given names, the names that tell the story of what we are called to do for his kingdom in this beautiful, crazy world.  And the most powerful thing about it is He calls us these new names (our literal "callings") before we have done anything to prove we can live up to them.  God is the original prophet.  He sees through our best efforts to sabotage ourselves and, often in our worst moments, He reminds us who we actually are.  He calls us out.

My family and I recently flew out of state and had a seven hour layover. This, as you can imagine with two toddlers and a preschooler, was a special opportunity to spend some sweet time together as a family.  Toward hour six, however, my son Abel had had just about enough family time.  He walked his little two-year-old self out to the middle of the airport terminal, and threw an award-winning tantrum.  It was really impressive.  He screamed his patented scream: a primal, gutteral, ear-piercing scream that makes nails on a chalkboard sound like the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir.  As he stood there screaming, my husband and I (who were so tired at this point, we were just watching the whole thing unfold like awesome, uninvolved parents) observed as a tiny, practically microscopic baby Hispanic girl toddled out to where Abel was standing and wrapped her tiny, petite arms around his waist.  She just held him, in a big bear hug (if the bear was tiny and cuddly and adorable).  Abel's maniacal screams instantly ceased, and there was a hush of silence in the terminal (except for the "awww" that was quietly offered by all observers).  When tiny "Isabella" was pried off of Abel by her grandma, Abel silently turned around, walked back to me, crawled up into my lap and laid his head on my shoulder.  Tantrum over.

Honestly, it felt like a heavenly moment.  What makes this story so powerful to me is that baby Isabella did for Abel what God does for every one of us.  She saw his ugliest self, and instead of avoiding him or treating him as the person he was behaving as, she held him close and treated him as one who deserves love. With her actions, she called him loveable, even when he was doing his best to prove that he wasn't.  Loving the unlovable: isn't that really the most prophetic act there is?

I want to be more like God, and Isabella (whose name interestingly means "Consecrated to God" or "discerning spirit.").  I don't want to simply know people by their earthly names, or even by what they act like on a daily basis.  I want to see beyond the surface and know who people are meant to be.  I want to help call out the best in people, and bless them to be the men and women God made them to be.  I want to see the cowards and call them mighty warriors.  I want to see the flighty, impulsive ones and call them solid rocks.  I want to see barren couples and call them mothers and fathers of great nations (Sarai and Abram - another jaw-dropping name story).  I want to see the unlovable and call them sons and daughters of Love himself.  I want to know peoples' names.

And so, my fascination with names continues.  Nomen est omen.  Name is destiny.  What is mine?

What's yours?