Names are important enough that we want people to remember ours. It matters. I’ve had trouble remembering names in the past and employed various tricks to help me. Lately it’s gotten worse.
Most of us have had various names,
nick names, and titles during our life time, some more important than others.
My parents named me Nancy Jane. They both had beloved relatives named Nancy and
Jane, the main reason they chose that combination for me.
My mother’s favorite sister, my
Aunt Nancy, began manifesting the symptoms of schizophrenia shortly after her twentieth
birthday. She later had to be institutionalized, the accepted response to that
condition in those days. My mom took this hard and grieved the loss for the rest
of her life. By giving me this name, she honored her sister and kept her memory
close. I, of course, didn’t realize any of this as I was growing up.
My parents and siblings never used both names when addressing me. But when Grandma Forsythe took on a certain tone of voice and said, “Nancy Jane!” I knew I was in trouble.
Names have meanings and histories,
but my parents apparently didn’t think about that. They liked the names and
wanted to honor their family members. But when I became a young adult, I researched
my names and discovered that both Nancy and Jane (along with Ann, Jean, and
Jan) mean grace. Some resources say gift of grace. I loved that
word, referring to God’s unmerited favor. I decided I’d accept that as a
blessing on my life, however unintentional. I was God’s double-whammy grace
child.
Grade school was a time for
nick-names and I inherited two. The first was bestowed on me by my classmates.
In those days, girls had to wear dresses to school, complete with saddle shoes
and socks. Because of the lack of protection jeans would have given me, I
suffered numerous scraped and bloody knees. (I was never very lady-like.) I was
also a skinny kid with legs like sticks. So the kids nick-named me Bird-Legs.
Actually it didn’t bother me. I was tough and could out-run most of the boys
(one reason for the bloody knees).
The other nick-name was
self-imposed. Nancy was a popular name in those days and there were three of us
in that small class. We formed a secret club and called each other Nanny-Goat.
Nanny-Goat 1, Nanny-Goat 2, and Nanny-Goat 3. I think I was number three. We
only used the name when no one else could hear. I would not have tolerated
having that name broadcast!
Fortunately, by high school both
nick-names had dropped by the wayside.
I received my next name in
college. I majored in Spanish. There was a group of us students who went all through
college in the Spanish program and we became close friends. In Freshman year
the professor insisted we adopt Spanish names. I chose Anita (another
grace name) because I loved its gentle sound. We used our Spanish names with
each other, even out of classes. It helped us become a cohesive group. In fact,
I have a few long-time friends who still call me Anita.
In the years after college, I
changed my last name and gained a new title: Mrs. That was followed a
few years later by Mommy, and many years later by Grandma. I love
those names. But through it all, I was still Nancy. The person came before the
role, but the relationships were enriched because Hal and I were persons first.
(This sounds very idealistic; in
reality it has not at all been smooth. Finding our identity and relating to
others from a position of authenticity is a long and messy business, whatever
our names, but that’s another topic.)
In my late forties and early
fifties, I earned another title. Earned is the right word. I worked
hard, worried some, and prayed even more. And used up a lot of paper. Then one
day I marched across a stage, was handed another piece of paper, and pronounced
a Doctor of Philosophy.
I was momentarily impressed. But
my Quaker sensibilities quickly kicked in and I found myself reluctant to use
my title, embarrassed when introduced with it attached to my real name. That
was a problem because after graduation Hal and I accepted a joint position at a
Christian university in Bolivia, with the goal of beginning a masters program
in intercultural studies. Hal had gotten his degree at the same time and we
privately referred to ourselves as a pair-a-docs. Latin Americans place
a great deal of status on academic degrees, and for this university to be
getting two of these critters at once was a big deal. We were “doctored” right
and left, and it became very uncomfortable.
I asked the students in my classes
to please just call me Nancy. That turned out to be culturally unacceptable.
They couldn’t do it. Finally one student came up with a compromise. Rather than
use the whole title with my whole name (what everyone else was doing), my
students settled on Doctora Nancy. Since it was only semi-formal and said with
affection, I accepted.
Now that I’m older and living here
in the retirement community, I’m back to being just Nancy. Which is more than
fine with me.
God calls me by my name, too. I’ve
never heard him audibly, but sometimes, if I’m listening, I sense him whisper, Nancy.
Other times he calls me daughter. I sense affection and delight. But
mostly God calls me child. My child, he addresses me. It’s almost
as though I’m very small again and sitting on his lap. Even though here I am,
growing older and living in a community for people my age, he still calls me my
child.
Never once has God called me my
dear old lady. Not once. Not ever.
I’m still Nancy, his grace child,
his beloved daughter. That’s the title from which I take my identity. That’s
who I am.
Who are you?
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