What's Your Name?

There's so many different things I want to say on today's post. But if I were to throw them all together in one pot - well, it might taste a lot like my first attempt at chicken gumbo. Lumpy, nasty and burnt.

Therefore I might have to narrow it down. But I'm not really sure that I can. My plan was to write on New Years resolutions. Or maybe, the lack of New Years resolutions in my house. For you see, this is the same girl who looked out the window in 2002 and vowed to never invest in an US magazine ever again. But then 3 months into the new year my money had probably paid for an additional wing on their offices. So see? I'm really not one to talk much about resolutions. (Though I do resolve to have grown from that experience and once again vow to never purchase another one. But this time it's due to more fear of my husband and his "budget.")

But then today Remi said something to me that I found a brilliant nugget in, she said, "Mama, what's your name?"

Hmmmm....think on that one for a moment. There's a lot we can chew on there. Especially at this new year.

And I thought for a moment. Ya know, what is my name?
If I had to call myself something, what would it be?
If someone else had to describe me, or call me something, what would they say?
Is who I am different than who I was?
Or do I even know who I am?

What is my name?

Thankfully, as I begin this new year I do so with the knowledge of what my name is. But lest you think I am boasting, I only learned my name a few years ago. Yep, sometimes it takes years - a lifetime even - for us to truly "get" who it is we are meant to be; who it is we were designed to be; and who it is He created us to be.

For some of us, the name we carry around with us is not the name we were ever intended to have. Let me explain.

I have a friend (several actually) but this one in particular I will call Frida (I do this with the utmost respect for the name Frida - but feel pretty sure that I don't have a reader by that name). Frida lived every minute of every day of every week for one thing and one thing only - her children. Not her husband, not her church, not the Sunday School class she taught or the missionaries she financially supported - and most certainly not herself - consumed as much time for Frida as those children. Not even God.

Where they were - she was. What they wanted - she provided. What they needed - she arranged. When they slept - she slept. When they woke - she woke. And when they went away, and they did eventually go away, Frida was left alone. And on one particular day, I think she said it was a Tuesday, around 2:30 pm, she opened up her fridge to grab a bite of something and realized at that moment,

"I didn't even know what I liked anymore. I didn't know what I liked to eat. Or drink. I could not remember the last time I laughed. I certainly couldn't remember the last time I surprised my husband with romance. I can't remember my favorite old recipes for no one ever ate them when I fixed them, so I stopped fixing what I liked and started fixing what they liked. And I can't remember the last movie I saw that I wanted to see. I couldn't remember the last time I spent time on my knees with God, and not driving a tour bus for screaming teenagers. I had forgotten who I was. I had forgotten all about the who God designed me to be. I had forgotten what He originally intended for me to be. And I knew right then, Melissa, that I had no idea who I was."

Frida spent the next few months searching, again, for her purpose. The purpose she lost somewhere between a ballet lesson and a root canal. The purpose that got left out in the rain, along with two Tonka trucks and a pet gerbil. The purpose that went away the day she began saying "no" to God and "yes" to others.

And finally, Frida found it.

She found her name. She found her purpose. And her purpose? Was Him.

I listened yesterday to our nation's talk show queen tell us that her goal for this year was to "love herself first, most", to "put herself back on the list."

And as good as that sounds it brings to mind a book by one of my favorite authors, Max Lucado, called "It's Not About Me."

*Note to self: In 2009, try to learn the real lesson...it's really not all about me.

My kids should not be my priority. And although he would like to argue this statement on certain occasions, neither should the Attorney General. Nor should my church. Or my family. And to be perfectly honest - neither should I. At least not all the time...although a mani/pedi never hurt a woman.

God. That is my priority. It really is all about Him.

He is my purpose.

He is my reason.

And I, I am His.

And He knows my name.