Name-Calling

This morning I am thinking about name-calling.  As the saying goes, “Kids can be cruel,” and we were no exception as children.  In my neighborhood, we all called one boy “Fat Kenny.”  There was no “Skinny Kenny,” so the moniker was unnecessary as well as unkind.  We called another boy “Crook Neck.”  I think he must have had some kind of musculoskeletal disorder, but rather than sticking straight up, his head was angled about forty-five degrees to the right.  There was a neighbor we called “Booty” for reasons that may have been obvious to anyone who saw her.  Then there were “Boo-Boo,” “Lurch,” “Dead-Eye,” and “Mr. Mullet.”  Not all of our name-calling was cruel, though.  Some nicknames, like “Precious” and “Bay-bro,” were used as terms of affection.  When the Commodores’ song “Brick House” was released, my dad started calling me “Condo.”  He said I was too fine to be just a regular brick house, and it did wonders for my 13-year-old self esteem.  It fascinates me now to think that we all actually answered to these names we were called.  (Well, everyone except “Booty” because she was older and we only called her that behind her back.)  It makes me wonder about some of the names that have been ascribed to me by others and by my life experiences.  I suppose some of these names are cruel, and others are kind.  I realize that two things really matter—one is what names I choose to answer to and the other is what I choose to call myself.  Like my dad, my Father only calls me those things that reveal His great love, favor, and purpose for me.  He calls me “Blessed” and “Anointed” and “Chosen” and “Victorious.”  He calls me His Child.  And I answer, “Yes, that’s me!”