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.”