Thank you, friends, for all the kind notes and feedback that I got after my post on being proud of myself - especially from you mommies who have been there, and responded with such encouragement and grace, and your own stories of how ridiculously much you loved your own tiny joyful bundles and how unbelievably hard those first 6 weeks were, even so. I felt incredibly encouraged and free just to be me, where I am, with unbelievable joy in early motherhood, and unmeasurable love for my son, but also full of chaos and overwhelmed-ness! Thank you for giving me that grace and encouragement. And things have been better in the last week or so, so thank you, to those of you who pray or prayed!
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One thing you should know about me is that while I do not always emote freely, one thing that always makes me cry without fail, is when anyone gives birth - even before I was pregnant this was the case. It could be a character on a TV show, a random commercial clip, or a dear friend - didn't matter, I am an equal opportunity weeper. There is something so incredibly beautiful and intimate and powerful, about the intermingling of overwhelming pain and absolute joy - bloody, gritty, long fought joy, but joy nonetheless - in that moment when something new and beautiful bursts forth.
And then in those moments of exhaustion and joy that follow, we are given the task of naming these new additions to our families - declaring publicly, this is ______. Maybe it's a name that you've had picked out for months, or even years, or maybe it's an in-the-moment decision; maybe it's already been public, maybe this is the moment of declaration - I don't know. Either way, we name our children. And in almost every instance, it's not something we take lightly - we put a lot of thought into the names that we give our children, the identities we hope and pray that they will have. There is something sacred about this process of naming - regardless of what the name is - even as it follows in the shadow of this joy-filled birth process.
For both of these reasons, I cry every time someone gives birth, and a new child is announced.
When Jon and I got married, the pastor who married us gave his homily out of Isaiah 62 - the text for which this blog is named - if you haven't read it recently, you should take a moment to do that right now! He preached about our power to name one another - and to rename one another; the parallel beauty of our heavenly bridegroom who truly names and renames us, and the present reality that we too, made in His image, have the authority to "name" one another, for good or for ill. The ways in which we get to affirm and build up, to remind each other of our true identities - or to mock, to jest without thought, to tear down, and to reinforce broken identities in one another.
Whether we intend to or not, we name one another with our words and actions. Not in the same way that we give our children a legal name - but in equally significant and sacred ways. Yet my hunch is - we put a lot less thought into those names - and we often times are unaware of the ways in which we "name" one another on a day-to-day basis.
Growing up, my family was very musical - my dad is a phenomenal pianist, my sister is a superb vocalist, and my mom, while she doesn't often indulge in it, is also very musically inclined. I have a good voice, decent pitch, good vibrato, solid sight-reading skills - and absolutely no innate rhythm. And very little ability to actually remember lyrics to songs well. And as a result, I, without malice or hurtful intent, received the name, "the one without rhythm; the less musical one."
But, here's the reality: I love to sing and it brings a lot of life to my soul. It might not be in 4/4 time, or even time at all, and I might humorously combine lyrics from 3 different songs into a creative melange mash-up, but it is life to my soul nonetheless. In college, a friend used to joke that she knew I was coming because she could hear me singing before she could see me. And yet, for years, I have bowed out of musical opportunities, refused to practice or work on rhythm, and always qualify any compliment to my voice with, "yes, but I have no rhythm" or "thank you, but I'm not really musical - you should hear the rest of my family." For years - sometimes still! - denying, or qualifying, and not investing in (and maybe even growing/improving in) part of who I am.
This is a silly example - but often times the ways in which we name one another are far more weighty. Maybe you grew up as a tomboy, hearing and believing that you were not feminine - even though you are female - because you didn't like makeup, dolls or dresses, and you still believe that you are less of a woman because you don't fit in a particular mold. Maybe you were the "smart one," the "fat one," the "one who is always alone," the "athletic one," the one who "can't ____" or the one who "always ____."
Some of those names run off like water on a penguin's back. Others, even though they're rarely intended to be hurtful, soak in, are absorbed, and become a part of who we believe ourselves to be - shrinking us into smaller versions of ourselves, giving wounds which we don't even know are there until someone wiser points them out to us.
Our pastor's charge to us, on our wedding day, was to be a marriage - a husband and a wife - who named each other in redemptive ways. Who reminded each other of who we truly are, and who God is remaking us to be - who name with hope and healing, rather than belittling, tearing down, or limiting with our words and our "names."
As I cried yet again this week, over the birth and naming of yet another baby, this is my challenge and reminder - to consider the ways in which I name others in the day-to-day, as equally sacred. With truth, not exaggeration, to build up, to name with hope, to speak life, and to remind others of who they truly are, rather than limit them to, or reinforce, some smaller picture.
