What's in a Name: From Ugly to Beautiful

(Read the purpose for the Redemption Story Project here.)

When I was ten, Dad pastored a small church in the Midwest and our family lived in the parsonage behind the church—a mud-brown two-story surrounded by dirt roads and cornfields. On meeting-free mornings, Dad read aloud a family devotion before he walked down our winding driveway, across the church parking lot, and into his hole-in-the-wall of a church office.

One warm September morning, as Mom and I and my younger siblings sat upright at the kitchen table, Dad read aloud a devotion on Names. When he finished reading, Dad just-for-fun pulled out a Greek/Hebrew dictionary and, starting with my youngest brother, looked up each person’s name and commented on how we reflected our Name. As I waited for my name-reading, I could hardly sit still, my skinny-girl legs stuck to the wooden chairs that were once my Grandma’s, and I wondered: what does Rebecca mean? Am I really like my name?

When Dad finally looked at me with his grey-stone eyes and read: “Rebecca—a woman whose beauty ensnares men,” his grey-stone eyes squinted with laughter as he hit the table with the palm of his hand, and from the other side of the table, Mom snort-laughed as she preached: “Rebecca—you should never use beauty to ensnare a man! Only bad girls do that sort of thing!” and feeling awkward-weird about all the laughing, I timid-asked, “Can I see the dictionary?”

I pulled the dictionary close, and looked down at my name--R-E-B-E-C-C-A--and the picture of a pretty Israelite woman with rings on her arms and a clay pot in her hand, and the words beside the picture: “A woman whose beauty ensnares men.”

And I didn’t know how to feel about this name of mine---Should I be ashamed? What on earth does “ensnare” mean? . . . . Am I beautiful like this clay-pot-carrying lady in the picture? But in the face of Dad’s palm-slapping laughter and Mom’s snort-preaching, I buried my questions deep in my heart, buried them until the flowering of teenage dreams and desires made me wonder anew: Am I beautiful?. . . Is beauty bad?

Then five years later, on yet another warm fall morning, I was fifteen and the questions buried deep in my ten-year-old heart were pulled into the light of day as I stared at my face in my dresser mirror and wondered: am I beautiful? Is it bad to want to be beautiful?

On that Saturday morning, I curling-iron-curled my hair and dressed in a cute parent-sanctioned outfit, hoping for a chance to walk across the street to the Old Car Show in the park where I knew I might meet a few cute boys my age (a rare occurrence when you’re a homeschooled, church-going girl of fifteen.)

I remember Dad walking into my pink bedroom, taking one look at my cute outfit and curled hair and asking: “Where are you going?” And me saying: “Well, I was thinking I could take the boys [my brothers] to the car show across the street.” And I remember my Pastor-Dad’s stone eyes flashing fire as he spewed: “I know exactly what you’re doing! You’re getting all dressed up so you can get the boys at that car show to look at you! That’s the kind of thing ungodly, bad girls do—try to get boys to look at them! That sort of behavior makes you Ugly!” And the look on Dad’s face said without actually saying it: ‘you are Unlovable! You are Ugly!’

In that moment Dad seared a new Name onto my fifteen-year-old-heart: Ugly and Unlovable.

But in my secret heart I yearned to be known by another Name: Beautiful and Loved.

And for years I warred with God and my parents—wanting to be Beautiful and Loved, not wanting to be Bad and Unlovable, Ugly.

And my parents—out of fear of outer beauty leading to reputation-marring sin—didn’t explain that God made outer beauty “very good,” but that inner beauty is even better because it reflects He who is forever-Beautiful.

To make my parents happy, to keep myself from being Bad—I chose to take on the name Ugly, to wear it on my secret heart, to feed the lie that to be acceptable to God and my parents—to be Good--I must be Ugly.

 I carried this secret name with me to college, to my first job, and into my marriage. I wanted to be Beautiful—acceptable, loved, worthy—but believed I was Ugly at the core. And I lived up to my secret-heart-name by pursuing mediocrity in my passions—running, writing, hosting, speaking--and deflecting the heart-felt compliments of my husband (and others): “I love you, you’re beautiful!” with self-deprecating words and thoughts: “I’m Ugly. I hate myself!”

I didn’t understand that my real name was not Ugly, but Redeemed and Beautiful, because He is the Beautiful Redeemer.

But as scripture says, “He has made everything beautiful in it’s time” (Ecc. 3:11), and in His Time, God entered my life Story and showed me my real name: Beautiful and Loved.

And, gradually, over time, with the help of my husband and others who saw me as God Named me—Beautiful and Loved—I began to take risks in my passions—to run races, to write out my heart-honest-thoughts, to start book clubs and plan parties—and to accept my husband’s love-words as true, replacing self-hatred and self-absorption with embracing Love.

And I’m still on that journey—to living in light of my real name, the name that God—the great Redeemer—has seared upon my heart and the heart of every woman, every person  he creates:

Beautiful and Loved.  

Related Post: Naming and Becoming: Birth

For Personal Reflection: What inaccurate/wrong names were you given as a child? How did God re-name you when he redeemed you? How are you working to live in light of your real, God-given name?

Redemption Story Project: Writing Assignment #3

Part 1: What are your families’ foundational stories? In other words, what stories tell you who you are as a family, your family characteristics, the rules by which you live?  What stories are most frequently told in your family at holidays and reunions? What stories are rarely or never told—are avoided or marginalized? What false stories are told to cover up family secrets? What stories does your family tell about you? Are the stories told about you accurate?

Part 2: Pick one of your family stories and write it out. Spend some time at the end reflecting on what truth—good or bad—this story reveals about your family and/or you as a person.

When Little Eve Bit the Apple

(This is Writing Assignment #1 for the Redemption Writing Project. You can view the first post in this series here. .)

I was five, or maybe four, and sitting in a folding chair in the last row of a church auditorium in Dallas, Texas, the city where Dad flew mail airplanes in the day while he studied for his Seminary degree at night. And on this warm Texas night, sitting inside the cool 1980’s church auditorium, my four year old self gazed across a sea of empty chairs to a mostly bare stage. Center-stage stood a crude wooden table, and on that table, in a wooden bowl, sat four waxy-bright red apples.

During his Texas-seminary days (and beyond), Dad acted in church pageants—playing the part of Peter or Herod or Joseph. I never saw Dad more alive than when he was on stage acting real anger, fear, love, or hate. At home, Dad was like a star in a night constellation—so distant, so cold—and I wished that my vibrant church-pageant Dad was my at-home Dad. And perhaps Dad’s church-pageant days is where I got the idea that wearing a mask—hiding the true self behind fake feeling—is the way to really live.

But on this particular night in Texas, I was sitting in the church auditorium after a pageant practice, and as my parents chatted nearby, my tummy grumbled, and all I could see was that bowl of red apples on center-stage. They were beautiful to the eyes, and I wanted one.

I knew these apples weren’t for eating, at least, not for me. But as my parents laughed with fellow-pageant people, I found my black patent shoes hop-skipping up the aisle to the front of the auditorium, and as adults mingled round me, I hopped onto the stage and wandered towards those Garden-of-Eden apples on the handmade table.

Beside the wooden table, I stood on my tiptoes, gazing up at those red orbs of sweetness. My tummy growled. I was just going to look, but then I thought: “Who would notice one tiny bite?”

So in a flash I snatched one apple, the biggest, dug my front teeth into the flesh, and then quickly dropped the apple back in the bowl—bite side down—and dashed off the stage and back down the aisle to where my parents stood visiting.

And, in my memory, as I stood behind my mother’s red dress, a robed figure (one of the other actors) walked onto the stage, picked up a microphone, and in an ominous Edger Allen Poe voice, he said: “Who took the bite out of the apple?”

And my heart panicked: Did he see me? Will he tell my parents? Where can I hide?

How can a person hide the truth in the wide-open world when everyone’s watching?

There was no good hiding place in the back row of the church auditorium. So I hid in the wide open by standing behind my mother’s red skirt and looking at the ground.

And when the robed figure left his microphone, grabbed the apple, and made his way down the aisle, stopping at each person asking, “Did you see who took the bite out of this apple?” I hunched my shoulders and prayed God would make me invisible.

When the robed figure walked up to my parents, I held my breath and prayed I wouldn’t be branded the naughty-apple-biter. I stared hard at the floor—hiding my naked face, fearing my guilt would betray my crime.

And the robed man chuckled as he stood beside my mother and me, his robe hem brushing against my little leg, and he said to my parents: “Just who, do you suppose, took a bite out of this apple?” And my parents chuckled knowing chuckles . . . .

And I—little Eve in the flesh—hid my eyes, refusing to stare at the naked apple marred by my white teeth.

And in my memory, I was never “found out,” at least, no one in-my-face accused me of being the naughty-apple-biter. But given the knowing chuckle-laughs of my parents and the robed man, perhaps they knew all along and just wrote off my crime as the silliness of a hungry four-year-old.

And I can’t help but wonder—is that when it began? The covering of naked shame by hiding?  Perhaps the hiding did start then, but I can’t know for sure . . . .

But this I know for sure: over they years, I traded the clumsy hiding tactics of my four year-old self—averted face and eyes—for the veneer of God talk and God actions. I hid an empty, hurting heart behind the words: God is sovereign, God is good! I hid a heart at war with God by singing in the choir and teaching Sunday School.

Just like Eve in the garden, I bought the lie that I could hide my naked shame and hurt from God.

But God wasn’t fooled.

For the truth is: “Light has come into the world, but [everyone] loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil.  Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed.” (John 3:19-20).

Just like Eve in the garden—I hid for fear that my deeds and words would be exposed for what they were—empty and lifeless.

But God’s word also says, “[Jesus is] the light of the world. Whoever follows [him] will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (John 8:12).

And it would take a myriad of years and much pain before four-year-old Eve grew up and traded empty, lifeless words and deeds for walking in the Light of Life . . . .

For those of you on the writing journey with me:

Writing Assignment #2

Part I: . Look up the meaning of your name in a book or on the internet. What personality traits does this meaning suggest and how do they relate to who you are? What aspects don't fit you? Why were you given your name? (Relative, biblical character, athlete, etc) What is the significance of your family name? What names have you been given (such as peacemaker, dumb jock,, slut, brain, trouble-maker, etc.) that do not fit who you are? What name do you desire God to call you? According to scripture, what does God call you?

Part 2: Think of a scene in your life where you were given a name, called a name, or lived up to your name (good or bad). It should be a scene that contains strong emotion. In your writing focus more on your emotions in the scene and try to capture them in your writing. Think about how the emotions affected you  physically and try to capture that as well. At the end of this scene, reflect on how this event with Naming affected how you view yourself, for good or ill.  

When God Interrupts Life: A Story

As the sun’s warm rays danced across the rooftops, I drove my cooped-up boys to the sand volleyball court down the street. They brought along Tonka trucks and Star War guys, and as the sun’s rays danced low, three boys hollered loud and threw off flip flops, digging naked toes in cold, wet sand.

As my boys laughed and dug into sand, that’s when I saw Little Boy and his Mama. Little Boy was digging, spraying sand all over red-headed Mama, and Mama was saying, “Stop. No. Please, don’t dig like that. You’re getting sand everywhere!!”

As gritty sand flew, Mama looked up at me and then down at my baby-belly, saying, “Is that your fourth boy?”

I laughed: “No! It’s a girl.” And Mama smiled, leaning towards me across warm sand, and I could see words in her green eyes, but I just wanted to read the book in my purse, the one I’d been waiting all school-long-day to read, so I looked past Mama and walked straight-as-an-arrow to the empty picnic table on the other side of the court.

I plopped on warm, red wood, pulling book out of my purse, and that’s when I noticed red-haired Mama walking away from her sand-spraying boy and towards my momentary haven on the red bench, and as Mama’s question flew over open sand: “Trying to catch up on some reading?,” I silent-groaned—this Mama’s got a lot of words to spill!

And skipping right over “My name is _____, what’s yours?” red-haired-Mama gushed:

“You know, I have so much trouble with my son, and just a little bit ago, I called my mom asking for her advice, and she told me I had no backbone and just didn’t know what I was doing and, she’s so critical, you know? And I know I’m insecure and I don’t know what I’m doing, but, you know, why did she have to be so critical? ”

And I said, “Yeah, parenting is so hard, and yes, I know about the criticism thing.”

Then—to my selfish delight—on the other side of the court, Little Boy threw sand and red-haired Mama trotted back across the court yelling, “I told you no throwing sand! If you do that again, we’re leaving.”

As Mama scolded sand-throwing Boy, I picked up my book, looking for my end-of-day-haven in beautiful words.

But before I could read a word, a years-old memory flashed across my conscious:  I saw the anguished face of a co-worker as she bared her soul to me, and I, I was too Selfish-busy to pause and listen to soul-bearing co-worker. The memory cut deep, and I saw my Selfish heart replaying in the Now, so I put down my book and heaved up and across the sand to where red-haired Mama knelt beside sand-throwing-Boy.

As sand from Little-Boy’s wild hands flew into my eyes, I laughed, saying, “Boys have so much energy!”

At this invitation, Mama’s words tumbled out, “I’m feeling so depressed. I feel depressed a lot. Sometimes I feel like committing suicide, and I go to counseling, and I don’t know what to do with my son, I mean, I went to a play group today and this other mom. . . .”

I listened as Mama spilled her story about how another mom in her Jehovah’s Witness group called her son a “brat.” Then as one sorrow led to another, Mama shared about her imploding marriage, her hopelessness, her fear, and how the JW elders couldn’t seem to help at all.  I saw the pain in her taut body, her averted eyes, her rushing words.

As Mama spilled sorrow upon sorrow I wondered: What do I say? How do I speak Hope, live Jesus in this moment?

And as Mama’s words surged around me, I felt Fear creep: You aren’t very good at this share-Jesus-to-a-stranger thing. Better just to listen and empathize and leave it at that. After all, you might botch the truth-telling . . . .

Then Little Boy threw more sand at our eyes, and Mama said, “I mean it this time! If you throw it again, we’re leaving!” And Little Boy threw sand again, and ran across the court, away from Mama’s grasping hands, so Mama yelled, “We’re going, for real this time. I mean it!”

As red-haired Mama leaned down to pick up shovels and buckets, I felt Holy-Spirit pressure loose my lips:

“What’s your name?  . . . Is it ok if I pray for you?”

And Julie’s green eyes looked into mine saying, “You can pray, but I can’t pray with you.”

I closed my eyes and prayed for Julie-the-red-haired-Mama. I prayed that Jesus would meet her in her struggle as He’d met me in mine. I prayed she’d know his love, His presence. I prayed she’d know the Jesus-who-Died-on-the-Cross for her.

Then I hugged Julie, and she half-hugged me and picked up Little Boy, and drove away.

That’s when Micah, who’d been playing in the sand next to Mama Julie and me, started asking questions: “Mom, did she believe in God? Why did she say you could pray for her, but she couldn’t pray with you?”

I knelt down in wet sand next to almost eight-year-old Micah, and as we built a sand castle together, we talked about Julie and Little Boy and how we all need Jesus to heal the pain of the past and the present. We talked about Truth and Hope and how we can love others by Living Jesus.  And when the castle was built and his questions mostly answered, Micah looked up at me saying,

“Write it down, Mom. Write it all down so you can treasure it in your heart—what happened here tonight.”

Write it down so I can treasure it in my heart . . . .

So, I am writing this story to treasure what God did with a Selfish-sinful woman who wanted to read her book rather than reach out.  I’m writing to treasure what God is doing in the heart of a woman named Julie.

And I’m writing to remind myself that every day, every moment, is an opportunity to Treasure the Only One who gives Life and Hope.