I think one of the biggest misconceptions in faith is that
once we accept the concept and authority of God, we expect our lives will to of
sudden come together and be perfect, that all our prayers are instantly
answered, and when adversity comes God will intervene on our behalf, saving us
from the consequences of our actions.
God never promised that we would have perfect lives or that we wouldn’t
reap the things we sowed, only that we wouldn’t be alone as we travel through
this life and face those consequences. Nor
did he promise that we would be perfect people.
Our hearts, minds and souls are not made perfect by faith, but through
the fires and trials of life we have the opportunity to become perfected by
that faith; but it’s a life- long transformation. Just as we are not born to hate, we are also
not born to love, forgive, be humble, or to care. These are developed traits
made by the choices we make in life.
I live by two concepts.
Number one – I cannot always control what happens to me. Sometimes bad shit happens that is beyond my
control that I did not earn or deserve. Sometimes great things happen that I
had nothing to do with. I can’t control
the universe and the decisions of others that affect or directly impact me. However,
I have 100% control on how I respond the good or bad that happens to me. Number
two –
It is not my job to save the world.
God did not grant me the power to save another human being’s soul. It’s
not my job to condemn them, either. It
is not my job to make sure they understand the error of their ways, to repent
for their sins, or to live their lives in any particular fashion. God gave me only two commands, and declares
that ALL other laws and commands are wrapped in essence of these two commands: Love
God, and to love my neighbor AS I love myself.
Many of us forget that last part… and I
believe it is just as important as the first two. Just as God is a tri-part being, so is his
Word - Love Him, Love each other, Love
ourselves. So, my job is to focus on
myself. I truly believe with my whole heart that if I concentrate on loving God
and allowing His love to fill me, I will love myself, and then with the love “of”
God, and the love within myself, I am able to love others – my family, my
friends, my neighbors – humanity – unconditionally. That is my heart.
But that hasn’t always been my heart. Throughout many times
of my life I was lost, angry, filled with hate and rage. I hated God, I hated the world, and I hated
all the people within it, especially myself. But that hate wasn’t born in me;
it was made, forged through the fires of adversity, at the hands of abuse, at
the devastation of loss. Yet, I have
survived. I am not perfect, by a very,
very, very long shot. But, I am working
hard to keep that love of God inside me, so that I continue to love myself and
love the world around me. I don’t know
where this strength comes from, but I have seen it rise within me during many
low times in my life. That love reveres
itself within the many names that I have accumulated through the years.
I’ve already told the story of how I received my birth name,
now is the time for the story of how I received my childhood nickname, the name
known to my family, a name I have attached to a lost little girl. In my dreams
she is always the six-year old me – a cute little tomboy with long, straight
brown hair, big hazel eyes, and set of dimples. I don’t have any pictures of me
as a child, so she’s directly from my memories only. I can’t really tell you how I truly got my
nickname, only how it’s been used over the years. I’ve heard a few different
stories of its origin, but I can’t validate any of them.
My name is Sap. I was
once told it was given to me because my older brother had a speech impediment
and couldn’t say the word “sissy” correctly, and it came out ‘sappy’
instead. Another story was that I was so
sassy when I was a toddler that my parents called me “sappy” in reference to
the sweet-bitter tree gum. But, if
either of those were true, what was I called when I was brought home from the
hospital until I got old enough to talk, old enough to be ‘sassy’ or ‘sappy’? I don’t know, I can’t remember, and as far as
anyone has ever told me, I was never called anything other than ‘sappy’ or ‘sap’. But there is a memory I will never, or can
never forget that solidified the name for me. I was about six or seven and I had
just witnessed my father beat my mother, yelling at her about flirting with man
named William Smith. This is a name I
would hear many times in my childhood as my father beat my mother. I never knew a William Smith, but I had grown
up hating that name.
Anyway, watching
my mother cowered in the corner of the kitchen as my father held her by the
hair, hitting her, I grew angry and I ran into the room, jumped on my father
and started hitting him. I knew he would
turn on me, but I couldn’t just stand there and be silent. I only remember how the first hit took a few
moments before I could even feel it and the room to grow dark. I couldn’t open my eyes all the way; they
stung when I tried because they had been swelled shut. But, I didn’t wake up to a mother holding me,
telling me everything was going to be okay, that she was going to protect me,
or protect herself. I woke up to meet
the glare from another swollen face, one full of anger.
She threw a cold rag at me and told me to put it on my face
and her voice was cold and she said, “You’re so stupid. Do you know why I call you sap? It’s because you’re just like tree sap, that
nasty, sticky mess that impossible to wipe off.”
That was the moment I began to hate to my mother. I hated
her for not protecting her children. I hated her for not standing up to my
father. I hated her for not saving me, for being weak, for being a coward. She didn’t protect me. She never did. For many
years she would remain silent and look the other way, and teach my brothers to
look the other way. It took me nearly 40 years to learn to forgive her
weakness. It took until the birth of my
oldest daughter for me to see her as a victim.
From that day I saw her just as much as my abuser as my father. I
believe I blamed her even more than my father.
I believe even to this day, because of her, there is an anger that rises
within me when I see a mother neglect her children, acts cruelly toward them,
doesn’t put their needs first, or doesn’t protect them. It’s definitely a weak
spot in me.
When I became a mother, I didn’t know how to be a mother,
not realizing I had been born a mother – a mother of my five brothers. Needless
to say, I was confused. I was lost. But, the day I put the needs of my children
first, and made the decision to leave my old family behind – to walk away from
them, was the day I shed the name Sap. I don’t think my brother’s ever
understood my decision to leave them, to walk away from that family, to
separate myself. They felt I abandoned
them, and I suppose I did. But, I chose
to be the mother I never had, and my first true act of motherhood was to
protect my children from that family.
I had always hated the name Sap, but for a long time that
was the only name I knew, not until my first day of Kindergarten. Mrs. Bonnet was my teacher. I can remember
she was tall, skinny and had this beautiful long, black hair. She called my name, but I didn’t recognize
the name she called. She called my name
again, looking right at me, but I still didn’t answer. I was confused. She walked up to me and said, “Tonya,
dear. I’m calling your name. When I call
your name, you’re to answer Present.”
“But, you didn’t call my name,” I replied.
“Are you not Tonya?”
“Tonya? That’s not my name.”
“Yes, dear, it is. You are Tonya Lynnette.” Mrs. Bonnet
pointed down to the name on top of a packet
of papers on the desk. “This is you.”
I already knew how to read and write. I was an early
learner, having started reading the newspaper at age four. One of my earliest memories of reading the
paper was reading about the death of Elvis Presley, I had just turned five. My
name written in neat blocked letters never looked so pretty in all my
life. Tonya Lynnette was a beautiful
name. I don’t know why it was so beautiful to me, but I loved it in that
moment, and from that day forward, when I went to school, away from home, away
from my family, I was known as someone else, I was Tonya Lynnette. At school I wasn’t a sticky mess someone
hated. I was praised for being smart,
being sweet, being kind, and being pretty. I was the little girl that had lots
of friends, and I was the pretty little girl Chris Brown kissed under the table
in art class and said he was going to marry someday. I was the girl that played marbles with the
boys on the playground.
Names are powerful. Their meanings are powerful. All my
names have power over and within me. God
has given me a new name, a name even I don’t know, that is written in the Book
of Life. I have a feeling the day I see that name written in that book it’s
going to feel as pretty as the first time I ever saw the writing of my name
Tonya. Tonya means “priceless – beyond praise.”
Many times throughout my life, people, even strangers, have approached me and
told me that I was precious, priceless. Prophets
have spoken over me telling me God says I am precious, priceless. Lynnette is derived from Eluned which means rescuer,
image or idol. In the Arthurian tales
she is a servant from the Lady of the Fountain who rescued Owain. I have spent my life rescuing.
All I know is that a name is powerful, but as I stated
above, it’s not about what happens to us or what names are given to us, it’s
what we do with them and the choices of how we respond that make us who we
truly become. I choose to forgive. I
choose to be kind. I choose to love. I
choose to protect. I choose to fight. I
choose to be Tonya, to be priceless, to be beyond praise. I don’t believe it was an accident that my
grandmother chose that name for me, or that it was nurse I was named
after. However, Tonya is not the only
name I have, there are few more and I will eventually get to them, too.
Till next time,
~T.L. Gray ©2017
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