What's in a Name?

While driving to Houston for the Thanksgiving holiday, my dad and I began listening to an audio book entitled The Dream of You by Jo Saxton. It is a book I am considering for a women’s Bible study this coming year. 

One chapter spoke of names – badges we wear which define us as individuals – whether our given name or words used to describe something about our character. Saxton explained how such labels may label us for a season, but they do not have to pave the way for our eternity. The Bible is filled with examples of God changing someone’s name as He changed their course in His story. 

As I listened, I considered my own labels, both given and created – by others and by myself. 

Strong – through divorce and cancer, this is a word often used to describe me. I hated, and still hate, this term. “If only they knew,” I told them and me. “If only they knew what was going on inside of me. No one would call me strong if they only knew the truth.” 

For me, the truth was that I wanted to give up so many times. I am strong for doing what I had to do to survive a bad marriage? I am strong for surviving cancer? I did nothing. I simply put one foot in front of the other, praying every night for God to take me Home. Every morning, when I woke this side of heaven, I simply went through the motions. Strong? Me? I don’t think so. I survived solely by the grace of God. If I am strong, it is and was in Him alone. No. I am not strong. 

Dreamer. That is how I define myself. I live inside the world of my imagination. It has not been all bad. It saved me during the tough days of adolescence and my parent’s divorce. I have written several novels, and although not published, are pretty darn good. I have used my imagination to write sermons and accomplish some wonderful things. 

However, being a dreamer has also cost me. I lack adequate planning and follow-through skills. I am too busy doing so much that I often lack focus and direction. I am a big dreamer, but the doer in me often must be shaken into action. Yes. I am a dreamer. 

Troy Renee – my given name. I have been teased about my “boy” name all of my life. As a child, it never bothered me because I was a tomboy. I loved having a boy name. As an adult, it still does not bother me, even when strangers call and ask for “Mr.” Albracht. 

Well, I would be lying if I said it never bothered me. Renee never bothered me. Troy did – a little.  I have always been grateful for the babysitter who started calling me Renee all those years ago. My sister’s name is Tori, and she struggled with Tori and Troy – hence, I became Renee. 

My sister’s name is Tori. This is why I struggled with being called Troy. My sister’s birthday Is January 7. My birthday is January 12. My mom tried to convince the doctor to take me out on January 7. He refused. I thank God for that doctor. 

My sister’s name is Tori. My first name is Troy. Our birthdays are three years and one week apart. This is why I hated my first name. I assumed my parents named me Troy on purpose – creating similar names on purpose. Switch two letters around, and I would also be Tory. 

Most of my life, I felt like I lived in the shadow of my older sister. She had it altogether. Growing up, she was the pretty one – the one the boys liked. She was the popular one. She was your normal, well liked girl. I was the awkward tomboy, teased for being different, always bent toward depression. I was Tori’s polar opposite. I hated my name. I hated living in the shadows of my big sister. 

As an adult, she got it right the first time with marriage and family. She has an amazing husband and two wonderful boys. Her life is still quite charmed. My marriage failed. I had no kids. I struggled into my 40s trying to figure out my place in the world. I continued to struggle with depression. 

I was the one who worked out. She was the one who changed her life at 40 – creating a lifestyle change of eating right and exercising – my dream, her reality. I hated living in the shadows of my big sister. 

Thankfully, even before I learned the truth of my given name, I found a way to step out of her shadow and find peace with who I am – and love who I am. Yes, I wish I had the self-control with ice cream that she has. I wish I had the self-discipline to work out and take care of myself the way she does, but that is not me – and I am okay with that. 

This past spring, my world seemed to be spinning out of control. I felt lost with no way out. There were so many voices in my head – people (including my sister) telling me what I should do, who I should be, what I should think. I could no longer distinguish between the voices of others, my voice, and God’s voice. I needed to run away or completely lose control. 

This has happened before, but I have always had an outlet – my abbey in Trappist, Kentucky. I had not been in years, and the voices were endless. I needed to clear my head. So, I went on a three-week road trip. Road trips are so therapeutic for me, and this one certainly did the trick. 

I cannot pinpoint the exact time or location, but all I know is that I received so much clarity – about life, love, purpose, and God. I knew what I wanted – and I knew what God wanted for me. Knowing the difference made all the difference. I found peace – even though my answer for just about everything was – wait. I now knew it was okay to wait. More importantly, I saw how everything that made me different from my sister made me set apart for God’s purpose for me. I could never live her life and she could never live mine. At the ripe old age of 42, I finally broke free from my sister’s shadow. 

I don’t know if others could sense the change in me when I returned home from that trip, but I certainly could. 

Fast forward to a few days ago. After that chapter, I asked my dad about my given name. I knew I was always going to be a Troy – either Troy Alan for a boy or Troy Ellen for a girl. At the last minute, my dad decided he did not like Ellen, and I became Renee. But I wanted to know, why Troy? Why not give me my own name? To my surprise, my dad explained that Troy was never intended to be a Tori comparison. He had a male friend named Troy and my mom had a female friend named Troy. They simply liked the name. 

All these years wasted, assuming I was intentionally placed in my sister’s shadow. 

The story does not end here, though. I have told this next story before, but it is still one of my favorite stories about me. 

After the divorce, I felt lost. Who was I? I could no longer claim “Ruthven,” my married name. I no longer felt like an “Albracht,” even though that is who I was and who the judge told me I would be again. 

I lived in Nashville at the time. While on an airplane flying home for Thanksgiving, I looked out the window and watched the clouds. Heaven. I shared my burden with God and asked, “who am I?”

He lovingly whispered to my heart, “you are my daughter, and that name is enough.”

Realizing the Verb of Love

Last night, while driving home, I began to ponder the difference between loving someone and being in love. I am not sure why such a thought crossed my mind. I suppose it was a combination of events from the day. 

While driving, I replayed the events of the past hour. A police officer friend and I taught several college aged women self-defense. My non-dominant fist throbbed from an off-handed punch I threw after a surprise attack, striking his faceguard with the weaker knuckles. One of our marketing strategies to lure students to class is “where else can you hit a cop and get away with it?” After my friend suited up, he came after me as I gave instruction, demonstrating for the young women what they would be doing. It was a good move on his part because it demonstrated how spontaneous an attack would be, and how ready they should be to react. It also gave them the courage to try it out themselves. 

The young women laughed and had a good time – until the end of the class. Toward the end, I took an about face stance. We had been having fun, and most of us can distinguish clearly right from wrong when it comes to a random attack by a stranger, but what happens when the attack comes from someone you know and even love? Our topic of conversation turned to date-rape, and more importantly, how to easily judge when something is going wrong, and someone is doing something they should not be doing. 

The class ended on a good and positive note. However, these serious, deep talks are always difficult, especially with a cop who is there to share real life stories – especially when I know the reality that, likely, at least one of those girls have either been the victim of a sexual assault or know someone who has been.

I reminded them that although most men will try, most men will also stop when they say no. If he pushes, that is when they can be certain that what is happening is not right. Romance should feel good. If what is happening does not feel good, there’s a problem, and they have the right to defend themselves. 

That is just a small taste of what we talk about, but as I thought about the look in their eyes, the look in all women’s eyes when we get to this part of the class, I know they know. What I am describing is not love.
Earlier in the day, I emailed a young woman who was concerned because she no longer felt God’s presence. I tried to describe the difference between an emotional response and a relational response. I described her relationship with Jesus like falling in love. Those initial feelings do not last, but if we maintain a healthy relationship, we discover something much greater. 

As these polar-opposite ideas of love swirled in my mind, I remembered something my mom told me after my parents told us they were getting a divorce. She said they loved each other, but they were not in love, and she didn’t know if they ever had been. She asked if I understood, and at the age of fourteen, I thought that was a bunch of hooey. She told me I would understand one day. 

I never did- at least – not until last night. It occurred to me that one is an emotion. The other is an action. I am not sure if this is what she meant, but looking back at their relationship, she was absolutely right.

Love – what a cheap word in the English language. I love chocolate. I love my Houston Texans. I love Jon Bon Jovi. I love my Bailey and Ray Ray. I love my family. And, I once loved my ex-husband.  Yet, I have never been in love – at least not with anything of this world. Everything I mentioned elicits an emotion of some sort. Emotions are fleeting. Sometimes they are stronger than at other times. They do and can fade away. 

Being in love requires a deeper commitment. It requires getting in the trenches, getting dirty, baring your soul, being fully present. Being in love takes time. It moves way beyond the feel goods. That is where “in sickness and in health, for richer and poorer . .  .” come in. Being in love requires time and attention even when there is nothing left to give, when the reward is not obvious, when the emotion is dormant, when it feels like nothing more than going through the motions. 

My parents were never in love. I was never in love with Brad. He was never in love with me.

Yesterday, I also had my former sister-in-law on my mind. Both her children have Niemen Pick Type C.  Her husband recently had a stroke and is still undergoing rehab. Her brother-in-law, my ex-husband, lives nearby, and he is still fighting his demons. How does she do it? Who is there to support her? Even with all she has going on, she reached out to me to see how I was doing. I know exactly how she does it. She is, and has always been, in love with her husband and her children. She has her family. She has her faith. More than that, she knows what real love looks like, and everyday she practices love. 

I don’t know if I will ever get the opportunity to experience being in love in this life. I think I have realized that one of the biggest reasons why I have had no desire to date since divorce is because I have no idea if I am capable of living in love, and I don’t want to ask anyone to be my test subject. 

I do not write this for pity’s sake. I do not pity myself. I am not completely lacking. I have experienced being in love with God.  It is the greatest, most glorious love imaginable. Even on days like today – feeling lethargic, my hand throbbing more and more as I continue to type, a terrible stomach ache earlier today – even so, I am in love and to know He is in love with me, too, is that much sweater. 

Whether or not I ever experience this kind of love with another human being or not is of zero consequence to me. I have the greatest love of all, and that is all that matters.

Perspective

This morning, as I sat outside for my prayer time, I began to feel nostalgic for my beloved Abbey of Gethsemani. This longing surprised me because I have not been experiencing the wanderlust which normally precedes this feeling. Life has been unusually wonderful. My circumstances have not changed, but my response to them have.  An overwhelming peace and trust in God have recently washed over me. The usual anxiety triggers have lain dormant. So, why this longing for the balm for my disquieted spirit?

My thoughts shifted to the weather – wet and humid – with mosquitoes feasting on my bare feet – an unusual shift from the recent cool, fall mornings. My momentary autumn prayer spot caused my mind to drift, replacing the calm ease of adoration with the self-centered grumblings of dissatisfaction. 

As I forced my will to see past the gloom of the morning, memories of my beloved Gethsemani crashed through my mind – a similar dreary day, but much colder. Too cold for me to brave the peaceful trails across the way. Too wet to even enjoy the prayer garden just below. I perused the library, longingly searching for God, desperately trying to recreate similar encounters as in years past. I needed Him, but how was I going to find Him here? Now? In these worst possible of circumstances?

After finding no solace within the words of ancient strangers, I pulled up the collar of my jacket, wrapped my arms tightly around myself, and sat on a damp chair on the covered library porch. I stared across the road, reminiscing of the profound ways God appeared to me the last few years, wondering how He would or could speak to me this time. 

Then, my mind’s eye saw Him, standing at the entrance to the trail across the street, wearing an army green jacket. He reminded me of Gary Sinise’s character from Forrest Gump. With a slight tilt of His head, He beckoned me to join Him on the other side. I silently declined, not wanting to get sick by traipsing in the woods in the cold rain. 

The Holy Spirit whispered in my ear, changing my perspective by adjusting my eyes to see this glorious gift right in front of me. He reminded me how much I disliked walking along the monk’s path. Being around other people made it difficult for me to be fully present with God. They were a distraction for me. Although this is supposed to be a silent monastery, people often talked, albeit quietly, but still, they talked while walking along the trail. These distractions are why I have so many wonderful stories about getting lost in the woods with God. 

This year would be different. This year, I could enjoy the trail with God all alone. This year, the cold and the rain would keep the others away. This year, this moment, was just for me. We would be alone on the trail – just me and God. 

I walked with Jesus on the tail that day – just the two of us. That was the year we sat by the lake, talking about reflections. That was the year He showed me the tree. That was the year I did not have to get lost in order to find Him. That was the year He taught me to open my eyes to a new way of seeing things – from His perspective and not my own. 

Thank You, Jesus, for that reminder this morning. It has been a long time since I have walked with you like that. Sometimes I miss experiencing You like that – walking beside me, my mind’s eye seeing a vision of You – dressed as Lieutenant Dan. But I know You came as I needed to see You then. Just as You continue to do today – always speaking to me, always teaching me, always loving me. For that, I am eternally grateful and blessed to be Your beloved daughter. Help me to never loose sight of Your presence and gifts. Open my eyes to always see past my human haze to Your glorious goodness.