Name Mispronunciation

 

Last Saturday at the Young Authors event,

I greeted one of the parents by name.

Hey, Mr. Anonymous.

He immediately corrected me on a minor mispronunciation of his name.

He’d previously done this in the car rider line, and I thought I’d corrected the pronunciation,

But my southern draw was still messing it up a bit.

He evidently didn’t like it at all.

And he wasn’t joking or being kind about it either.

He was very serious.

And it made me sad.

 

Last Friday, at the 2^nd and 3^rd grade program,

I greeted two of my students by name.

Hey, C. Hey, E.

The boy whom I had called E just sheepishly looked at me.

I could tell I’d gotten his name wrong.

I said another name.

It was wrong, too.

Finally, his sister said, “It’s D.”

And I felt so bad for getting D’s name wrong.

 

I know that names are important.

I do my best to call everyone by the right name.

But sometimes I mess up.

And when I do,

I hope for the quiet kindness that my students showed,

Rather than the judgmental condemnation of the parent.

 

I know that that parent has a lot on him.

I imagine that he carries a lifetime of hurt.

I’m trying not to judge him but to instead show him grace,

But I must admit it’s hard

When I don’t understand

The full gravity of name mispronunciation.

 

And so today, as I write this,

I breathe in the junk that I feel about saying his name wrong and being harshly corrected,

And getting my student’s name wrong,

And not being fully graceful,

And falling short in this category and so many others…

 

And I breathe out light, love, grace, and peace

To myself,

Mr. Anonymous,

You,

And all the hurting people who sometimes get things wrong in this world.

 

Amen.

Names

 In a couple of weekends, I will be helping with a women’s retreat in Blowing Rock.

One of the things I will be talking about is the importance of names.

 

Evidently, I have a lot of friends who struggle with their names.

One only likes to be called her given name—do NOT shorten it.

One only likes to be called by the name she chose for herself—do NOT call her by her given name.

One doesn’t feel like her married name—she is her maiden name.

And one doesn’t like her first name, rather prefers her middle name—she feels no connection to her namesake.

 

Me, on the other hand, I pretty much answer to anything that starts with a D 😊.

I am Deanna, or Dee for short,

But I answer to Dana, or Diana, or Deana.

I don’t get offended when people say my name wrong,

And I don’t get angry when drive-thru workers spell my name wrong.

 

I do get angry at myself, though,

And when I do,

And I’m tired, or functioning under too-high-stress,

The names that I call myself aren’t very nice:

Dumb, stupid, worthless,

Ugly sinner saved only by grace—

Emphasis on ugly sinner, not on grace.

 

Idiot is a common name for Deanna in my mind.

Too Much, or Not Enough,

Are common names, too.

On one hand, I sometimes feel like I am too much for people—

Too deep, too thought-provoking, too intense—

On the other hand, I feel like I am not enough—

Not smart enough, not good enough, not worth sticking around for.

 

For too long,

Those ugly names were all I could hear—

Even on my best days.

But now, thanks to therapy and an ever-expanding view of God,

Beloved is the name I often hear.

Beautiful Child of God,

Created by God,

Loved,

Redeemed,

Enough…

 

Names are important.

Whether it’s the names that we are called,

Or the names that we call ourselves,

Names have power

Because they represent our identity—

And our identity is who we are.

 

What’s in your name?

 

What names do you call yourself?

 

What names would you like to live into?

 

Spend a few moments considering your names now.

 

And then be thankful that, above all else,

God calls YOU, too,

Beloved.

 

Amen.

**Listen on Spotify: https://spotifyanchor-web.app.link/e/k7y8Wq93bDb

An Accidental Name

For a few short months last year, I had the privilege of knowing a student that we’ll call Bob. Something happened to Bob’s legs at birth, so while the rest of his body grew normally, his legs did not. For this reason, Bob’s primary mode of transportation was his wheelchair. Bob’s hands were strong. The rest of his body was, too. He would participate in music class just like everyone else, scooting himself out of his wheelchair and walking himself around on his hands whenever it came time to move. I enjoyed teaching Bob…and I told him many times that I believed that he could be an amazing athlete. I still do.

Each morning that he was with us before he transferred to another school, Bob descended the bus on the chair lift. For safety purposes, I held his chair in place when he was on the lift. While he was more than capable of wheeling himself into the building and taking himself to class, he liked it when one of his friends, TJ, met him at the bus and rolled him into the building. Faithful friend that he was, TJ waited on Bob every morning. As he waited, we talked. In the process of talking, I started calling TJ, Teej. I’ve called him that ever since.

Recently, Teej did something out of character in music class.
I don’t remember what he did, but in the midst of a class transition,
I looked at him and quietly said, “TJ. What were you doing?”
He very respectfully responded, “TJ?! My name is not TJ, Ms. Deaton.”
A bit confused, I said, “Okay. Then. Toussain.”
Again very respectfully but somewhat playfully, he said, “My name isn’t Toussain either.”
Very confused by this point, because I knew that I knew the boy’s name, I said, “Well what’s your name?”
He smiled and said, “My name’s Teej.” It was sort of like, duh.
I smiled softly and then we all went on with class.

That conversation quickly got lost in the chaos that was the rest of his class—his was the class that I wrote about last Thursday that ended with three students crying because one of them was moving—but I remembered it yesterday when Teej showed up during his recess to show me his recorder. I had no idea that he was coming, but it was a neat little visit and it ended with us making plans to exchange his dollar store recorder for a five-dollar store recorder and a borrowed recorder book. [Teej is in a lower grade; I currently only do recorders with 5th grade. So this plan was top secret.]

Curious about last week’s name declaration, I asked TJ when I saw him today if anyone but me calls him Teej. He said no. Then he added that some people in his class are starting to call him Teej. I said, “Because they hear me calling you Teej?” He said, “Yes, ‘mam.”

I confess. I unashamedly smiled.

There are many days when I wonder what in the world I’m doing teaching. I come home exhausted, feeling like I’ve been run over by a bus, wanting to beat my head against a wall, because it often feels like I’m talking to a wall of overly chatty bricks that don’t want to listen.

But then I have a very chill student who rarely shows any emotion ask me to play an upbeat character education song from months ago because she remembers it and it was her favorite.

Or I have a very hyper student who rarely shows any interest in music ask me to show his class a clip that he enjoyed from Fantasia.

Or I have a very excited group of Harnett Off-Broadway students descend upon my room as a thrilled pack of loud animals and wholeheartedly sing songs that they haven’t sung in weeks.

Or I have a struggling student draw a picture of me and write about how he wants to make me proud.

And then I think about Teej and how I accidentally gave him a name and I think, “This is why I do what I do.”

It’s little moments of light, love, hope, and humor that keep teachers doing what we do.

Names

We took the boys to church yesterday as part of Nana Camp. I proudly and lovingly sat beside them and felt my heart warm as I watched and listen to them sing the hymns. I was so present in the worship service that I completely forgot that I was supposed to be playing the offertory with my mom.

As the usher began the offertory prayer and I bowed my head to pray, I heard a loudly whispered, “Dee!” coming from piano bench. I looked up, saw my mom getting our duet music ready, whispered, “Ooooh!” and immediately moved to my place on the piano bench. I was so amused at myself for forgetting that I was supposed to play that I laughed through a good portion of the piece. Added to that, I knew the boys were giggling at me from their pew and that two of the choir members were carefully watching my mom and me (although I didn’t know why at the time). Needless to say, our offertory yesterday wasn’t our best, but it was certainly memorable.

And what made it more memorable is that it was followed by a five-year-old unabashedly offering her dancing as her worship during the next hymn and then being called by name from the pulpit during the introduction to the pastor’s sermon on being called by name.

Names.

Names are so important.

Whether being said in response to a mess-up like my name was called yesterday or whether being called for something beautifully sweet like the five-year-old’s or whether being called out of compassion and love like Mary’s was called in yesterday’s scripture (John 20), names are important.

Names are the written and sounded symbols of who we are. They hold our personalities, hopes, dreams, fears, failures, moments of forgiveness, and stories of redemption.

While none of us want to hear our names called for messing up—as the pastor said on Sunday morning, when we hear our First, Middle, and Last Names, then we know we’re in trouble!—all of us want to hear our names called for doing something good, for being respected, for being loved.

In thinking about names, I realized, maybe for the first time, that some people go for days, or sometimes weeks or months, without hearing their names. What’s more, some people go a lifetime without hearing their name lifted in prayer. There is something special about hearing your name lifted in prayer.

When is the last time someone called your name?
Or, as I’ve been thinking today, when is the last time you called someone’s name in prayer?
Or someone called your name in prayer?
Or, as the pastor hinted yesterday, God called your name as you were praying?

Names are important.

And evidently when my friends and choir members Jes and Rebecca think of Sandra and Deanna, they think of a mom and daughter who both raise their eyebrows in the same way at the same moment while playing their offertory piano duet.

In Solidarity With Love

Sitting on the couch, stinky white dog beside me, mismatched black socks warming my feet, brown shorts and black t-shirt demonstrating an outfit the fashion police would arrest, I must jot down the things that I learned or pondered during my first on-call at the hospital on Wednesday:

1) The residents and Spiritual Care staff at the hospital are wonderful. They willingly and graciously helped me through the daytime portion of my duty, patiently guiding and mentoring me through a vast field of ignorance. To see them using their gifts and passions to minister not only to patients and family members but also to me was a humbling and inspiring experience.

Each day when I worked for SC WMU, we’d pray for missionaries who had birthdays on that day. We’d call the International and North American Missionaries by name but we would lump the chaplains and volunteers together by category because there are so many chaplains and volunteers sharing Christ’s love. Yesterday, that prayer for chaplains and volunteers took on new meaning as I observed and experienced firsthand the peace-giving work of the chaplain. I’m going to try to start praying for the chaplains that I know by name every day, and I’m going to start with the wonderful people that I’m working with now.

2) It is super important to have at least one or two emergency contact numbers memorized! Thanks to the speed dial on my cell phone, I don’t know many telephone numbers at all. But. If I’m ever in a trauma situation where I can speak and the chaplain asks me if there is anyone that I want them to call for me then I need to know the number. You do, too. Contrary to popular opinion, the wallet, purse, and/or phone don’t always stay with you when you enter the Emergency Department.

3) Badge holders with retractable elastic come in very handy when the name tag includes cheat sheets of vital information. While emergency contact numbers should be memorized, all information in the world shouldn’t…especially when it can be easily accessed via said badge.

4) Although I’m not a fan of wearing them myself, I think that everyone should wear a name tag. Names are important. Being called by name is important. Looking someone in the eye and calling him/her by name instills a sense of dignity that too often gets lost. It also provides incentive not to act out or do anything that would shame a person’s name. I’m terrible with names. I want to get better at remembering them. In the meantime, I’ll start lobbying for embracing the name tag.

5) I don’t want to eat barbeque or a salad in the middle of the night. The idea of heavy dinner food and/or a salad in the wee hours of the morning feels wrong to me. Yet. I think it’s great that the hospital cafeteria serves these foods to those who otherwise wouldn’t get them because they are sleeping during the day so they can work at night.

6) It’s okay to cry. To weep actually.

[Selah]

7) Sometimes permission can set us free. I went into yesterday terrified of doing something wrong. My old script of needing to perfect—to please everyone—to do the “right” thing—had been screaming at me for two weeks, trying to convince me that I was going to fail with chaplaincy. After shadowing the residents and talking to my supervisor, however, I was able to soften that loud voice and remember what I know to be true: no one is perfect, I am my own worst enemy, and life is about much more than right or wrong. My supervisor told me that she trusted me—that I wouldn’t have been accepted into the program if she didn’t think I could do it. She encouraged me to trust my gut and to minister out of my gifts and abilities—because they are vast. The residents showed me that it’s okay to get turned around in the hospital, that I didn’t need to panic when I hear the pager go off, that it’s okay to touch people on the shoulder, that it’s okay to laugh, that it’s okay to ask questions, that it’s essential to remain hydrated. One resident told me that I had a naturally calming presence and a patient said the exact same thing at 2am.

[Selah]

For yesterday’s spiritual care office devotion, we read Psalm 46 and focused on verse 10: “Be still and know that I am God.” As we sat together in the holy and sacred silence that is God, I breathed in the breath of life that is the Spirit and prayed to represent the love and peace that are Christ.

I made it through my first on-call because those around me must have prayed the same thing.

[Selah]

I will rest now. I can barely keep my eyes open. The dog, my mismatched socks, and my lovely outfit are ready to rest, too…and fall asleep thanking God for the communion of saints and the prayers of a people standing in solidarity with Love.

Power In A Name

I took a car load of stuff to Goodwill last Wednesday.

As I drove up to the drop off site, I was greeted by a weary Goodwill worker. She rolled out a large cart into which we loaded my stuff. I talked to her about what I was donating but she didn’t really make an effort to respond.

When we finished unloading the car, I said, smiling, “Have a good weekend…What’s your name anyway?”

She said her name but I didn’t understand her. “Vanessa?” I said.

She said her name again but I still didn’t understand her. “Tressa?” I said.

She said her name one more time and I finally got it. “Cresa! How do you spell that.”

“C-r-e-s-a. It’s short for Lacresa but it’s easier to just go by Cresa,” she said.

“Well, have a good weekend, Cresa,” I said.

Smiling, with a complete change of body language and attitude, she said, “You too. What’s your name?”

I told her my name and that I’d try to have a good weekend, that I’d be moving to NC and that it’d be busy. We talked a bit about where I was moving and what I’d be doing and the conversation was nice…but only after I’d asked Cresa her name.

There is power in a name.

There is power in looking someone in the eyes and asking her name.

There is power in looking someone in the eyes, speaking her name, and seeing her.

Oh God…help me to see people…and love people…and call them by name…like you have called me by name. Amen.