Use Their Names
On my way home last night, driving through the Dallas storm, I was wondering if people think I’m kind. Not to depend on the opinion of man, of course, but to depend definitely on the knowledge that good will towards men still matters. It should matter. Godliness matters, too, but sometimes that basket is heavy and so we start with just one fruit that fits our fingers.
What constitutes the pursuit of kindness, really? Someone who’s soft, lively, affectionate, warm? Not particularly the cluster of adjectives that would decorate my eulogy. Those who know me know I am other things - sturdy, loyal, maybe, driven, and true. Those who don’t may see a shell that’s polite but distant. Helpful but a bit cold. Friendly perhaps but too unapproachable to know for sure.
In a snow globe, I see men and women greet strangers with vibrancy, affirmation poured out thick like honey from their lips. They smile like my husband, big and wide so it leaves lines on the cheeks. I give it a shake and watch the snow settle on a village of people not like me. Will sanctification take me there? In the meantime, how will anyone know that I care.
Ram Dass says, “We're all going to the same place, and we're all on a path. Sometimes our paths converge. Sometimes they separate, and we can hardly see each other, much less hear each other. But on the good days, we're walking on the same path, close together, and we're walking each other home.” The rain crawled up my windshield, and I asked the Spirit to show me how His kindness walks us home and then to go ahead and make me like that.
A song by Angus and Julia stone played next — the very first verse hit me like an answer and I trust that it was: “You can’t call a dog home if you don’t know his name.” I was brought to John 10 and the words of Jesus that say his sheep recognize His voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. He doesn’t bribe them and he certainly doesn’t leave them there to starve. He doesn’t refer to them by the color of their coat, and he doesn’t begrudgingly pick them up by the ears. Lovingkindness calls us home because He’s a shepherd and He knows our name.
Early the next morning at work, a young girl came in, twenties. Her shorts were too short and she was fanning herself from her jog. With a smile, I asked how she was doing - no reply. She ordered her espresso in as few words as possible. A complete bitch. Pompous, she smacked her gum and hovered high above me as I prepared her drink. I handed it off and she sipped it in front of me, hurried. I stood with her and before she left, I asked, “What’s your name?” Her face softened and she met my eyes for the first time. “Amanda,” she said. “I think I like this place.”
Maybe you’re not the smiley spirited sort, and you’re wondering if your kindness isn’t right. Well, be encouraged in this small step. We have neighbors on our pilgrimage home, and we’re supposed to love them as ourselves. Whatever that means. You and I are not the same, but maybe peace on earth wants us to at least use their names.