You would think that parents have ample time to name their impending child.  Nine months, after all.  And yet somehow children are still given unforgiving and seemingly misspelled monikers that will be scrawled across their school papers and monogrammed across their foreheads until some sympathizing soul finds a justified and redemptive nickname.   

I have come across some of these parents over the years, and I feel a sense of obligation to help.  For the child’s sake.  For example, there was a family who wanted to name their daughter McLean, which despite looking like a low-cal menu item, actually rhymes with McShane.   I suggested that they go with Maclayne, which they did.  Whew!   Bullet averted.

And there are more similar stories.  Parents confined to the letter J or seven letter names or triple syllables, and somehow my brain has this little baby name machine – much like some casino dime game –  where the components are all factored, qualifying baby names line up, and the best possible combination spits out of the coin slot.   Ta-daaah!  It’s the least I can do for rising generation, right?

Have you ever noticed how you can pray something like “Your will be done“, and then what you get is so not what you thought you were signing up for.  (Not unlike the entire parenting experience, ironically.)  It’s not that it is bad or worse, but it is different and possibly the more difficult route, but perhaps with a better conclusion.   I have asked this of God lately. 

Align my heart with Yours.  Purify.  Redeem.  Restore. 

It sounded innocent and holistic and inspiring.  But instead of newness or insty-wholeness, I am instead seeing with fresh eyes the unforgivable misspellings of my own soul.  

Sometimes it is unfortunate to be spiritual-gifted with discernment or wisdom or prophecy, because I am held responsible for using it wisely; and sometimes, instead, I find myself sitting in a whale’s belly wishing for a less demanding destiny.    I sit on my hilltop wondering why God would forgive and redeem them when they’re such big screw-ups. 

In a new class we’re trying at a new church in this new city, the teacher has been discussing the parable of the prodigal son.  He has been honing in on the role of the older brother - elitist, condescending, judgmental – and tracing that to where his character ultimately ends up – stage left, beyond the celebration, above the need for the father’s restoration.  And the question was posed, How often do we take that role?  Somehow Dan and I were placed in a small group with a bunch of eldest children who all associated with the drive to color inside the lines and parent their younger siblings.  We personally both felt much more like prodigals - questioning the rules, blazing new trails and pioneering independent thought.   (As a side note on that, I think that while there are pros and cons to both roles, in personal experience I find that the path of the prodigal veers to extremes and where much has been forgiven, there can be much forgiveness.  It seems to me that the brokenness of the wayward journey is intrinsic to the later reception of the Father’s embrace.  Just sayin.)  So this Prodigal sat through the new class with pity for all of the Older Brothers, whose perfectionism binds their creativity and whose rigid hearts constrict their capacity for compassion.  I bet they all have really ordinary names too.  It must be hard for them to be so judgmental all the time… 

Enter sanctimonious prayer, stage right: Align my heart with Yours.  Purify.  Redeem.  Restore. 

Night before last, I had a strange dream.  I was with a bunch of people (that I know in real life) and every situation in my dream story yielded a reason that I was furious with them.   I went around the room spewing words at everyone setting some hypothetical record straight.  The common thread to my anger was tied to a sense of injustice – that they were being given more than they deserved – more money, more credit, more blessing.  Yesterday, I was walking through my day as usual when something brought one of those people to mind and I felt the lingering fury.  I reflected on what substantiation my dream could be drawing upon, and there I saw myself with those new eyes.  Elitist.  Condescending.  Judgmental.  Somewhere along the way, my insight and sincere desire to help anyone in need turned into a superiority that is obligated to fix everyone in need.  

Wow.

So today I am again praying: Align my heart with Yours.  Purify.  Redeem.  Restore. 

I shall color.  I shall discern.  I shall think independently, for I can be no other.  And I will find the trail that leads to today’s Ninevah, for I am called to spread truth and hope and love.  Yet I will remind myself with every footfall that it is still not my job to name all of the people of the world.