There Is A Name

What do people think of when they think of you?  I've been especially nostalgic these days and am missing my grandfather terribly. We called him Papa, and he was the finest man I have ever known.  

One of my very favorite things about Papa was that when I told him I loved him, he never ever responded with an automatic "I love you too."  Instead, he would stop whatever he was doing, look me right in the eye, and say, "And I love you."  I am not the only grandchild who loves him dearly; we all do.  When he died, I wrote him a letter intending to slip it into the breast pocket of his suitcoat.  I remember approaching his casket, letter in hand, only to find a hundred other letters stuffed in there.  And Twinkies.  My diabetic Papa hid stashes of them everywhere, so I suppose it was only appropriate that he was buried with a few.  My guess is that it was my prankster dad who stuck them in there.  Anyway, the point is that Papa was deeply loved by a lot of people.  He died  nearly 19 years ago, but sometimes it feels like yesterday; heaven is sweeter to me because he is there. 

The name Papa is one of the most precious names there is to me.  It is security.  I never once questioned if Papa loved me or would take care of me.  I never wondered if I was welcome on his lap or if my presence was an intrusion, even though I visited him at work often.  Sometimes when I hear people calling their grandfathers by the name Papa, I secretly wonder if that man is worthy of the name.  (And honestly, I automatically assume that he isn't because I slip back into my 5 year old mind where "My Papa is better than your Papa.")  See, the thing is that there are certain things that should be implicit in a name.  Papa. Grammie.  Nanny. Mom. Daddy. Mama. Grampie. Whatever you call these relatives in your life, their names mean something.  They should instantly conjure up feelings of security and images of people who love us unconditionally, who only have our best interests at heart, and who would never ever intentionally hurt us.  Sadly, this is not always the case. 

I know that child abuse and neglect exist all over the world, America included, but when I lived in the US I wasn't usually slapped in the face with it every day even though I worked with troubled youth. Here in rural Guatemala it's every. single. day.  Usually multiple times a day.  It is heart-breaking and exhausting and depressing; quite frankly sometimes it makes me want to run away to anyplace I can stick my head in the sand and forget about it for a while.  But I can't.  I can't stop.  And here's why:  there's another Name.  

Emanuel.  He's here.  

El Roi.  He sees me.  

Adonai.  He's got it all under control.  

Abba.  He loves me. 

And I get the holy privilege of proclaiming His name to people who desperately need to know it.  It's the whole reason Loving InDeed exists, it's the whole reason I exist, and it's what makes the job of a  missionary so very different from humanitarian aid.  We get to tell the Gilbertos, Silvias, Henrys, Joels, and Yenifers of the world that there is Someone who loves them so, so much.  And because I love Him, it makes getting to share Him so worth it, even on the days when I want to run and hide.  There is a name.  And those who know that name will put their trust in Him because He will never forsake those who seek Him.