Stepping Into My “H”

Usually going to church does not lead to a temper tantrum. But about three years ago I heard a message preached that caused me to storm into my momma’s house and demand an explanation. But before I go any further let me give you one.

The sermon that Sunday was on grace. Specifically on how characters in the bible encountered God’s grace and how it changes their whole identity, case in point, Abraham and Sarah. The pastor told us about their stories from Genesis. How the Lord took an elderly man and woman from a disobedient nation and made a covenant with them that they in their old age would be the mother and father of nations and kings would come from them. It was an unbelievable promise. But they responded the way we must with God; they believed. And with their faith, history unraveled before their eyes. God was faithful.

But the part that enthralled me was that upon declaring His covenant with them, God changed their names. Abram became Abraham (“Father of a multitude”) and Sarai became Sarah (“Princess”). They had an encounter with an All Mighty covenant God and their world was so turned upside down that not even their names could remain the same. The nugget that my pastor had connected this encounter with was the letter “H”. God broke down this man and wife’s paradigm and placed His Creators hand on their names, leaving both with a newly transformed names exalting proud “H”s. He made another connection telling how “H” is the fifth letter in the Hebrew alphabet, and five is the number of grace. Therefore making H the letter of Grace. It all made sense. And I was outraged.

Upon hearing this grace filled message what did I do? I confronted my mother and demanded a name refund. “Mom, you told me that when you were pregnant God told you to name me Rebecca, right? Right. But Rebekah in the Bible is spelled with an H and you spelt my name R-E-B-E-C-C-A. No H. Where is my H? I want my H!”

My mother’s maiden name starts with an H so she responded appropriately. Grace filled. But for a year I wondered why??? Could I have an encounter with God and get my H too? I felt like a boyscout that just found out that all of the patches he had earned had all been fake. “What do you mean that I didn’t really earn that badge on first aid to woodland creatures!?! I used all of my gauze to patch up that baby bird’s wing and he was as good as new! It was a frickin’ miracle!”

Then, this past Christmas my mom gave me the best Christmas present ever; a Bible. Not only was it the Hummer of all bibles (Greek translations, plethora of footnotes, maps of the old world and silver lined pages) but engraved in silver on the front was my name, with one tiny exception. “Rebeccah Rose”. My eyes filled with tears. My mom had remembered.

So jump to now. I am sitting in a church in the middle of the Dominican Republic my first night of this adventure I have embarked on called The World Race. The Pastor, our host, Raul is preaching some fuego in Spanish. But even though I can understand him and my ears are attentive to the message, my heart is invested in the little girl holding hands with me in the pew. Her name is Anny and she is 12 years old. She has these rich dark eyes and a sparkly white innocent smile. I take out my Bible and show her a picture of my family that is inside of it (thanks Chel!) and she smiles. I begin to take notes on the sermon and I see that her eyes have locked onto my pen and are big and bright with hunger. Has she never seen a pen before? I show her how it clicks to write and she takes it and starts writing on her pants leg. Thoughts cross my mind; “Should I let her do that? Will her mother be upset? Those are probably the only jeans she owns. Her church pants.” But she keeps glancing at the corner of my bible then back to her pants. After about a minute she shows me what she wrote in bright blue Bic letters: “Rebeccah” “What?! Why did she write my name on her pants?! Oh, no, she spelt it wrong, doesn’t know about my mom and I’s joke. I don’t want her to learn my name the wrong way and then be scarred on how English works forever!”

But the innocence and sweetness of the exchange shut me up. I took her hand and started to draw on her palm, a heart and a rose. She admired my work and took mine in hers and duplicated the heart and added a sunflower (Girasol) to her sketch. Then in the middle of my palm, next to her artwork, she wrote her name in crooked letters; Anny. My heart smiled brighter than my face. She put the pen back into my hand and pointed back to her palm. She wanted me to sigh my name there too. So I did. Then she shook her head and pointed to the last letter of my name engraved on my bible. She pointed to my H and said, ”you forgot that one.”

You know those moments when God winks at you and His warmth invades your heart and it is like he is sitting there next to you?  Yup, Jesus sat next to me in the pew holding my hand in His as I held little Anny’s  and I told Him that He is really funny and that I could not believe His love, kindness and grace towards me. I did not deserve that H. There is nothing I can or could ever do to earn it. But grace is not a destination, it is a journey that we choose to accept and walk in every day. I, like you, have to make a decision to adorn myself with His grace every day. To walk in the knowledge that I am a chosen and honored child of the King and that there is nothing nothing nothing that I can do to be separated from or escape His love. He cannot help but to Love me and shower me with Grace. It is not a decision for Him either, it is who He is. He is Jesus, and love and grace radiate from His eyes.

As we closed up the church and locked the doors that night I caught another glimpse of Anny’s name scribbled on my palm. She went home to her tiny tin roof/concrete block home with mine on her hand too. My favorite verse rocketed through my mind;

My name, Anny’s name, your name… we are all written on the Father’s hand. The God that created heaven and earth can look down at His big holy hand and see your name, the name He gave you. And I bet he gets warm fuzzies when He sees it too. But if we are created in His image, even if miniature in proportion, what if our hands were made for more also? What if when we looked down we saw more than just lines and creases and scars from clumsy childhoods? What if our hands were made to have each other’s names written on them too? We were not put here to just walk past each other pretending everything is alright, ignoring our neighbors as we add more bricks to the walls we set up between each other and our Creator. We are our brother/sister’s keepers. We were made to fight for each other. We were made to leave our mark on each other.

So I challenge you; who is written on your hand? Whose name are you holding in your hand? And who are you leaving your name engraved on?  Let’s get our hands dirty, filthy with loving each other. But let’s do it out of the love and grace that pours forth on us so freely from the Father’s hands.