Names
Joan- I don't ever remember liking my name. I remember in Junior High asking my teachers to call me Beth, a nickname from my middle name Elizabeth. Shortly after I was married I added -ie to Joan, again changing the name that I had been called for years.
When was the last time I had heard my father say my name? I could not remember. For a long time all I could hope for was a brief look of recognition, assurance that in some way he knew I was connected to him.
One morning at 3am I sat up in bed as I watched the dim outline of my father walk down the hall towards the dining room. Adrenalin replaced my drugged sleep deprived state as I followed quickly behind him.
"Daddy, how can I help you?" He did nothing to acknowledge my presence. With large quivering bird like flaps of his arms Daddy circled the dining room table, and then as if he seemed to be done with some secret ritual he veered off towards the living room.
"Daddy, can I do anything for you?" Silence. Arms still flapping, head down he reentered the dining room and then back to the living room. What would I do if he didn't stop? I didn't want to wake mother who was exhausted.
Suddenly he froze. As if aware of my presence for the first time, he looked me in the eyes. Leaning forward touching my elbow seemed to trigger the connection to my name. "You're Joan." he said with certainty.
"Yes", I raised my voice in amazement.
"Laura?" He turned his head as if expecting my mother to be close by.
"She's in the bedroom, Daddy." He walked back towards the bedroom and back to share the bed with his wife of many years.
That may have been the last time he said either of our names - the name of his wife and eldest daughter. That was a precious moment for me but no matter how important names are the bond of love that held my mother and I to him as well as to each other would continue no matter what. Our love is a poor reflection of the character of our loving heavenly father but it was a clear evidence of his grace in our lives. This was also an amazing reminder of the one who never forgets our names. John 10 reminds us of the good shepherd who calls us by name and never forgets that we are his.
When was the last time I had heard my father say my name? I could not remember. For a long time all I could hope for was a brief look of recognition, assurance that in some way he knew I was connected to him.
One morning at 3am I sat up in bed as I watched the dim outline of my father walk down the hall towards the dining room. Adrenalin replaced my drugged sleep deprived state as I followed quickly behind him.
"Daddy, how can I help you?" He did nothing to acknowledge my presence. With large quivering bird like flaps of his arms Daddy circled the dining room table, and then as if he seemed to be done with some secret ritual he veered off towards the living room.
"Daddy, can I do anything for you?" Silence. Arms still flapping, head down he reentered the dining room and then back to the living room. What would I do if he didn't stop? I didn't want to wake mother who was exhausted.
Suddenly he froze. As if aware of my presence for the first time, he looked me in the eyes. Leaning forward touching my elbow seemed to trigger the connection to my name. "You're Joan." he said with certainty.
"Yes", I raised my voice in amazement.
"Laura?" He turned his head as if expecting my mother to be close by.
"She's in the bedroom, Daddy." He walked back towards the bedroom and back to share the bed with his wife of many years.
That may have been the last time he said either of our names - the name of his wife and eldest daughter. That was a precious moment for me but no matter how important names are the bond of love that held my mother and I to him as well as to each other would continue no matter what. Our love is a poor reflection of the character of our loving heavenly father but it was a clear evidence of his grace in our lives. This was also an amazing reminder of the one who never forgets our names. John 10 reminds us of the good shepherd who calls us by name and never forgets that we are his.
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