I grabbed a small spiral notebook and wrote,
Remember your name.
Below it I put these words:
Know who you belong to.
Then I realized that, like a good Texan with poor grammar, something about that sentence wasn’t right. We’d say it, “Know who ya belong ta.” So I scribbled it out and carefully printed,
Know whose you are.
Know whose you are. I paused and looked out the window. My identity really starts and ends with the One who created me. There is a beautiful poem in Psalm 139 that says He knit us together in the womb and knows our innermost parts. He created us in His image and then sat back and said, “It is good.” Blinking hard, I realized something: God doesn’t make mistakes. He created me to be uniquely me, and I had simply forgotten whose I was. I had been operating from the wrong owner’s manual.
Oh boy. As my own master, the names I called myself. Names I responded to as soon as I heard them. Names that weren’t actually mine.
Failure.
Worthless.
Inadequate.
Afraid.
Fraud.
Stupid.
I wrote the names in my notebook and continued listing every name I could think of that I called myself. In the end, I had a pretty long and pathetic list. On so many levels I had beat myself up in my “self-talk.” Forgetting who I belonged to had created an open season for blasting away at myself. And I suddenly realized that I’d let my very identity be formed by the names I called myself, because I had confused what I do with who I am. I saw myself through a distorted prism. All I had to do was think back to my last low moment, and bingo—I could hear myself saying, “Hello, My Name Is _______________.” Just as if I were wearing it on a name tag.
Hello, My Name Is ___________________________:
Afraid: I’m paralyzed by fear of rejection and failure.
Alone: No one understands me.
Unloved: If God loved me, how could He allow this?
Unlovable: I’m obviously not worth loving.
Lost: I will never find my way.
Unworthy: I cannot accept love and affirmation because I’m such a loser.
Failure: Um, obvious.
Sinner: I keep committing the same stupid sins over and over again.
Damaged: My wounds are too deep to heal.
Ugly: God used all His best stuff on the cheerleaders and gave me the leftovers.
Defeated: Why even try?
Stupid: I am constantly making dumb mistakes.
Fake: One day everyone will find out I’m not who they think I am.
Inadequate: I cannot measure up to the woman I should be for the people I love.
Nobody: I don’t matter.
That afternoon, it hit me. As a child of God, I belong to Him. He made me. He owns me. I am His.
This. Changes. Everything.
God sees me through the lens of eternity, through grace and through the mercy that makes all things new. Complete. Perfect. My identity is in Him. Only He has the right to name me. As a matter of fact, only He has the right to name you.
My heart beat a little faster as I wrote down the names He had given me. Later, I followed each with a Scripture reference, but at the time, just seeing the list of names overwhelmed me. I pictured each word as a name tag.
Hello, My Name Is ________________________.
Brave
Understood
Loved
Precious
Found
Worthy
Successful
Forgiven
Whole
Beautiful
Able
Wise
Genuine
Enough
A daughter
Setting the notebook aside, I laced up my tennis shoes and made my way to the back woods, where Flash liked to pass the afternoons in the shade of the tall oaks. At the sound of my call, his hooves rustled toward me through the underbrush.
“Flash! Hey, buddy.” He came to a standstill in front of me and lowered his head to sniff my shirt and rub his forehead on my stomach. What a difference from the scared donkey he’d been just weeks ago. Perhaps ownership had changed him as well. He seemed eager for a good, all-over scratching, and I couldn’t resist giving him one as I continued to ponder.
If you’ve ever had a paradigm shift, can you relate to how it feels like giant boulders are moving from one side of your brain to another? I tilted my head to hasten the process, and I’m not sure it helped, but I still couldn’t deny that something big had happened. Something solidified.
I belong to God. I am His.
My identity is in Him. He has given me a new name.
I am not what I do.
My value doesn’t come from my successes or my failures.
What I do comes from who I am, not the other way around.
My value is inherent, not earned.
No, I didn’t hear any peals of thunder or angel choirs singing, and no trumpets blared to announce a “Hear Ye, Hear Ye” truth to my hurting heart. There was just this funny-looking burro who had landed on our doorstep late one night. And there in the back woods, while scratching a donkey’s ears, I learned an incredible thing: God can use anything, at any time, in any way, to speak to me.
Fortunately, He was far from finished.
Remember your name.
Know whose you are.
If you’re a person who likes certainty, then come on down to Texas in July. You are certain to experience searing temperatures that top one hundred degrees each and every day. You can depend on wide blue skies, punctuated by puffy white clouds that offer only fleeting moments of shade before leaving you to bake once again under the blistering sun. Most assuredly, you’ll run from air-conditioned buildings to air-conditioned cars to air-conditioned buildings, clutching a sweater for the chilly indoor climates while perspiring profusely in between entries. You’ll suddenly understand Southerners’ deep affection for sweet tea and lemonade and realize that cowboy hats aren’t only an icon of the West, but a way of avoiding sunburned necks and faces.
Lauren and Robert had picked July for their wedding but also had the sense to get hitched inside a church with powerful air conditioners. The frosting on the cake held tight, which was more than I could say for my hair that drooped like melted ganache. But that’s only a small footnote on a wondrous event; despite the heat, it was a picture-perfect wedding.
Texas summers seem to stretch endlessly, the hot wind blasting across the prairies and withering all but the hardiest of vegetation. Day after sweltering day, those of us who live here find ourselves yearning for that first cool breeze that tells us autumn is on its way with the northern jet stream.
Now autumn, as far as seasons go, is a real guessing game. You never know if you’re going to get gorgeous fall colors on the trees, or if the leaves will simply turn brown and fall off. I’ve been told it has something to do with the amount of rain during the year, but really, it’s all conjecture. No one really knows. We’re all happy to have survived the heat, so vibrant leaf color is merely a bonus, like having gravy on your chicken-fried steak. Don’t even get me started on winter weather.
But since you brought it up, let’s just say Texas winters are crazy. They bring huge fluctuations in weather patterns, resulting in the obvious: an extreme dependence on hair products. Every woman in Texas lives in a state of perpetual preparedness. Word to the wise: If you know what’s good for you, do not get between me and my can of superhold hair spray. A day in January might be sunny and seventy-five degrees, and the next day will likely bring freezing temperatures and biting winds that can knock the breath right out of you . . . and reduce your carefully coifed “hair-do” to a limp “hair-was.” In seconds. But hair problems notwithstanding, I secretly enjoy the schizophrenic winters because I like waking up to surprises. Especially ones that bring flip-flop–wearing sunshine and a chance to wear shorts in midwinter.
With such extremes, it was necessary to have a
suitable shelter for Flash, and our three-sided barn made a perfect home. He could go in and out as he pleased, finding welcome shade for loafing on a summer day and protection from the unpredictable wind, rain, and sleet during other times of the year.
“Flash still prefers the woods,” Tom observed. “I think he likes to keep his options open.” Nonetheless, under Flash’s watchful eyes, Tom installed a hayrack and water bucket in the barn, shored up the partition, and hung lighting so we could see at night. These improvements received Flash’s stamp of approval, with the hayrack being his most cherished feature of all. You would have thought his hay was being served up on fine china, as he eagerly pulled it from the sturdy metal structure, one mouthful at a time. It was fine dining, donkey style. When not eating or combing the floor for any dropped bits of hay, Flash’s favorite place to station himself was half in and half out of the stall opening. Back end protected, front end out where he could see what was going on. With soft wood shavings on the dirt floor, Flash had a comfy spot for dozing. Pretty nice digs for a once-homeless fellow, and it felt good to see him enjoy the space.
As the seasons changed, Flash himself seemed to transform with them. His sleek, summery hair was again replaced by a thick, furry coat that made him appear fuzzy and chunky—a look that was endearing on him. The hair on his forehead and down his nose curled in all directions, giving him a kind of plump, teddy bear charm, and the creamy white hair on his chest and belly felt as soft as velvet and twice as deep. Every time I saw him, I just wanted to squeeze him, so I usually did.
Flash was getting accustomed to my bursts of affection, and though he pretended to simply tolerate them, I noticed he’d started to come running when I called. However, as soon as he got near me, he’d pull up and act like he just “happened” to be passing by. “Oh, you want to hug me? Well, if you must, I guess it’s okay,” Flash’s demeanor intimated, barely hiding his delight. Perhaps in his previous life he’d been disappointed so often that he didn’t want to appear too eager.
Nonchalance, as I’d found in my own experience, is an effective defense mechanism. Seeing it linger in him touched me, and I squeezed him a little more tightly because of it. And since winter had arrived, I threw in an extra handful of hay, which, in contrast, he received with joyous snorts and nickers. Not the slightest bit of indifference to be found.
February arrived, bringing a week of delightfully warm weather. Out came the shorts and sandals. Of course, it was immediately followed by a record-breaking cold front dubbed “The Arctic Blast” by local media. It hurled in from the north with freezing rain that brought our busy lives to a standstill. It probably goes without saying that Texans don’t function well in ice, but I thought I’d go ahead and mention it. The pelting ice storm started during the night and continued throughout the following day, and all roads were shut down. Bridges and overpasses became slippery death traps. School attendance was unthinkable. We sat glued to our television set like weather zombies. A jackknifed 18-wheeler on I-35? We must watch this.
As the trees and native grasses became encrusted with layer upon layer of ice, they glittered eerily like a scene recreated from a Narnian winter. The temperatures dropped further, and the sleet kept coming as the deciduous trees began to bow under the weight. The branches of the cedars around the house were also bending beneath the load of ice; by nightfall they nearly touched the ground.
Inside, I turned on all the lamps and lit scented candles to celebrate being cozy and safe and warm on such an unforgiving night. The kids were already in their pajamas and sat on a rug by the fireplace with Beau, who was only too happy to join them as they started a movie. Canceled school meant a late-night treat for everyone, including the dog. Tom, a nature enthusiast, wasn’t content to nestle in the comfort of our living room. I watched him don his jacket and hat.
“Where do you think you’re going, honey?” I asked as he pulled on thick gloves. I had already guessed what his response would be.
“I’ve got to see how bad it is out there.”
Tom always secretly hopes for a Texas blizzard—not surprising for someone who grew up in Minnesota and harbors an intense fascination with wintry blasts. Mercy, he’d love a good snowstorm. But short of a blizzard—the weather event of his dreams—ice is clearly the next best thing to snow. He’d never forgive himself if he missed it. Moments after closing the door behind him, he poked his nose back inside.
“Come out here with me,” he called. I had seen enough with one glimpse—it looked awfully cold and miserable out there.
I shook my head and sank a little deeper into my afghan on the couch. No. I’m good. Thank you, though. Seriously, I felt quite comfortable inside where it was nice and warm. My fuzzy socks were delightful.
“Please come. I want you to experience this!” he insisted, his blue eyes dancing.
Sighing, I set my book facedown on the cushion, got up, and dutifully put on a heavy coat and shoes. Grayson and Meghan looked on in amusement. They were accustomed to their father’s weather obsession and had already set out seldom-used plastic saucers for hill sliding with him in the morning. I followed him out into the icy evening, and he put his arm around me as we stepped across the crunchy grass.
“Rach, you’ve got to see this!” Tom said. He acts just like a kid during these climatic occurrences. I had to smile. Despite myself, I always get drawn into his excitement for the simple things.
He whipped out his high-powered flashlight and aimed the beam into the trees. They shimmered in the light, their glittery layers of ice flashing and sparkling. The baubles of ice that clung to the cedars sounded like a thousand beaded dresses swaying in the cold night breeze.
He was right. It was worth coming outside. And to think it didn’t cost a penny.
“Now,” Tom said, “behold!” In a grand gesture, he moved the beam out into the pasture, where the winter grasses stood frozen in their white couture. Each blade, each plant, each stick was a picture of magical perfection, as if coated with glimmering fairy dust against the black sky.
“Ohhh,” I breathed. It looked simply amazing. We stood awestruck by the beauty and savored it in the darkness that surrounded us. Tom slowly directed the shaft of light across the small field and toward the barn. The light tipped the grass and shrubs as it moved along, igniting icy sparkles in its path.
Suddenly a dark, shaggy lump appeared in the spotlight. Tom backed up and shone his flashlight across the gray mass again. What in tarnation?
Flash! Huddled just outside the barn in the freezing rain, the donkey raised his heavy head and peered back at us questioningly. “Huh?” he seemed to say. He started toward us, and as he neared, we could see that he, too, was covered in thick ice. Only on Flash, the ice coat wasn’t nearly as glamorous as the one worn by the cedars. Crusty, frozen dirt balls stuck to his long winter hair, and a mass of muddy icicles hung from his mane. He was a cold, filthy mess.
“Flash, what are you doing?” I scolded him. “Why on earth are you standing outside the barn when you should be inside where it’s nice and dry?” I’d checked on him earlier in the day and made sure he knew he had plenty of hay in the open stall. I never imagined he’d choose to brave the elements instead.
Flash pulled up close to the gate and gave me a pathetic look that said, “Please let me come into your cozy house to get warm.”
Well, there wasn’t a chance in the world that that was going to happen, but before I could open my mouth to set him straight, Tom turned to me and said, “Why don’t you head back inside? I’m going to give the poor guy some oats.”
“He’ll just think you’re rewarding him for his ignorance,” I called after him, but to no avail. My man was already off to have mercy on the frosty beast who couldn’t seem to figure out how to escape the sleet. I shook my head. Aww, Flash! You’re awfully cute, but where’s your common sense tonight?
Tom gave a whistle, which had become his signature call, and Flash followed across the frozen pasture to the barn. Once inside the she
lter of the stall, Tom gave him a handful of oats and then made a hasty trip to the house for some supplies: towels, blankets . . . and a hair dryer. Back he went to the barn, and Flash shivered uncontrollably while Tom pulled the ice clods off him and blotted his matted hair with my good bath towels. Flash was soaked all the way to the skin—and dangerously cold. With one hand around his thick neck to reassure him, Tom turned on the noisy hair dryer. Flash startled and tried to break free.
“It’s okay, Flash. We’ve got to get you dry.” Tom began to work him over, inch by inch.
Once he got used to the whirring sound, the donkey relaxed and let the warm air blow over him. Gently separating Flash’s hair, Tom massaged the animal’s body with his fingers. Flash clearly loved the attention, cooperating fully by turning this way and that so that no part of him was missed. He chewed slowly on the hay, pausing whenever Tom hit a particularly pleasant spot. Just above the tail? Oh yes, please.
By the time Tom finished the lengthy salon treatment, Flash’s hair felt soft and fluffy as it curled up along his back in shiny ringlets. Tom decided he was finally dry enough to drape with a heavy blanket (also one of my good ones) and leave for the night.
“Feel better now, buddy?”
Flash gave a deep sigh and pressed Tom’s jacket sleeve with his white muzzle. With eyes closed and hindfoot resting, he was the picture of sleepy gratitude.
After one last noggin scratch, Tom returned to the house and shed his dirty jacket and hat. Cupping his hands under the hot water, he started to wash up as he gave me the report on our now-fluffed-and-warmed donkey.
“I can’t figure out why he didn’t get out of the sleet this afternoon,” Tom said. “He could have been warm and dry this whole time, but it was like he didn’t know how to take shelter in the barn when it was right in front of him.”
I took the kettle off the stove to fill a mug with hot cocoa. “What could possibly have been going through his mind? I thought his sense of self-preservation would keep him inside.” It was a mystery. “Anyway, thank you for getting him fixed up.”
Flash Page 5
