Working to become known by my new name
Have you imagined getting a new name? And what your new name would be? I expected to get a new name when I got to heaven, but in 2019 God gave me a new name.
It came from, as they say, out of left field. But our amazing God does the unexpected, and to Him be the glory.
I had imagined something like the following happening when we arrive in heaven. Someone God has appointed gives new names, and they fit you as your skin fits you now. I thought there might be a naming ceremony during the welcoming celebration period. Here is what Isaiah said about new names-
“The nations will see your righteousness, and all the kings your glory; you will be called by a new name that the mouth if the Lord will bestow. You will be a crown of spendor in the Lord’s hand, a royal diamem in the hand of your God. No longer will they call you Deserted, or name your land Desolate. (Isaiah 62:2 NIV)
You know, the people of the Bible had names that suited them and what they would be known for. I wanted a name that meant something or one I would be known for. But I could never imagine that happening this side of heaven.
Here is how this came to be. This event occurred shortly after the Holy Spirit healed me from rejection. Rejection I had felt since birth, a weighty oppression for seventy years. First, I feel I must describe how I received my legal name at birth.
As a child, I didn’t bond with either parent. There was rejection from both. But a mother’s rejection is such a trauma that my father’s rejection didn’t even register.
For most of my life, if anyone asks where I got my name. I would try to fight the tears, but there would be tears of hurt and anger. Even after all these years and the many times I’ve been asked, it still triggered the deep hurt of my mother’s rejection.
No, I wasn’t abandoned or given up for adoption. I was raised by a woman who repeatedly told me that “I was too ugly to name.” She told me this story every birthday for as long as I can remember, until the last year of her life.
No deformity, and in my photos, I looked like any other baby. This is the story my mother told of how I got my name. She says she refused to have anything to do with me because I was ugly. My father had left the hospital, went to celebrate a bit too much, and was involved in an accident.
Back in 1948, women stayed in the hospital for a week or more when delivering a healthy baby. I was a healthy, six-pound five ounces. And in those days, nurses wore caps and white dress uniforms. The nurses thought they would doll me up and my mother would accept me. They passed the cap around and bought me a little yellow dress and bows for my long dark hair. Still, my mother, who had a two-year-old son already and seemed to be a good mom to him, said no to the dolled-up version of me!
When it came time to name me, she told one of the nurses to pick out a name. Now, I know it was a rare thing for a nurse at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Atlanta to get to name a baby because they were nuns. So I carry the name given by one of those great and brave women. It has been a privilege to carry this name for that reason.
A few days after I arrived home, my big brother, who is 28 months older, decided to help. With my mother’s nail polish, he climbed into my crib and painted my nails, both my finger and toenails. Of course, he got nail polish everywhere. Soon, someone discovers him. He immediately starts repeating, “Make baby pretty, mama; make baby pretty!”
I don’t think he thought I was ugly. He was a toddler, but having heard my mother tell people I was ugly and always being my hero. He tried to correct her image of me.
As an adult, I learned that my mother had an affair it happened while my father was overseas during WWII. She became pregnant and had a back alley abortion. I believe she could not see me without seeing her guilt and shame for that sin. So she used “she’s too ugly” as an excuse to let others care for me. I have forgiven her, but invisible scars linger after any type of abuse.
In 2019, I found myself at the altar praying when a friend came up to pray with me. She said, “God says, what’s your name?” I looked at her, confused. I said God knows my name is Glenda. She took hold of my shoulders and said insistently, “God says, what is your name?” The name that came out of my mouth was “Joy.”
I melted then and was so full of the Spirit. It’s one of those times when nothing in the human language is enough to give praise to the Lord. He saw me and knew my heart as I worshipped Him.
As I processed this, I was overwhelmed. When I created my website in 2016, I named it “My Amazing Joy dot com,” and my monthly newsletter was “Finding Joy.” I used these names because I am a joyful survivor of childhood abuse.
A couple of weeks later, my friend who had come to the altar that day stopped by my home. She said as she prayed for me, God told her to come to tell me that “He did not allow my mother to name me.” She pointed out to me what a privilege it would have been for that nurse to name me.
These days you will find me working hard to be known for bringing joy to my family and friends. But I especially want to bring joy to those who have been hurt by childhood abuse of any kind.
