My husband and I are the proud and very pleased parents of two wonderful children. We were expectant parents living in the medical technology of seeing our babies in the womb through the lens of ultra sound, however, unlike current advances in that field, we did not know the gender of our children until they made their grand entrance into the world. Thus, our process of choosing a name for our child meant selecting a suitable one for each gender. During those early years of marriage we also had friends giving birth to their own families and found ourselves in numerous conversations that always started this way: “So, have you chosen names for your baby yet?”

The responsibility and process of choosing a child’s name can be overwhelming. After all, a name is something that stays with a person their entire life, gives shape to their character, their identify, and reputation–good or bad. How often have we shared a conversation with someone who absolutely does not like their given name?

One of my favorite stories regarding ‘names’ is  about my dad and the background of his name. Dad’s given name is Ira Wilbur Jewell. However, the only time he was ever addressed as Ira was in a medical setting. At all other times he was called “Jack”. He was given that nickname based on school records that indicated he was “John Jewell” from his early years concluding with graduation from high school. Verbal family history states that when he was born their was a strong disagreement over what he would be named. Grandma Morris wanted another “John” in the family, dad’s own mother wanted him named “Ira” in honor of a favorite school teacher. Both won in a sense I guess. But back to “Jack”. In the short few years after high school graduation dad found himself in need of his birth certificate so he made the trip to Reed City to obtain just that. There was a slight glitch in the process when the clerk looked up his information. It seems that no male child by the name of Ira was recorded for Oct. 15, 1921. There was, however, a female child recorded. Her name was “Irene”. The anguished clerk (as I was told by dad) looked at him, chuckled, and said, ‘Well, you really don’t exist. You can choose whatever name you want. What is your name?” Dad’s response was most likely laced with his own humor when he would have told the clerk “I graduated high school as John, I’m always called John, Johnny, or Jack, but I know my mother named me after a favorite schoolteacher, so out of respect for my mother, my name is Ira Wilbur.” He and the clerk were able to conclude that the country doctor responsible for providing birth information to the county clerk simply could not remember the gender of the baby that Clarence and Sadie birthed that fall day, let alone the correct name.

As a little girl I always heard my dad called Jack, regardless if we were at home, out in the neighborhood and nearby businesses that he dealt with on a regular basis, church, family gatherings, or his workplace. As time passed, giving way to growing older and dad becoming a great grandpa he received a new name by my great nephew–“Papa Jack”. He loved this new name and took every opportunity to grow into it and fully embrace the tenderness in which it was given.

Dad is gone now but his legacy of names lives on in our hearts, especially mine. In the process of cleaning out his home and bringing home a lot of paperwork I have been enjoyed seeing documentation for Ira, Jack, and John. There is one item that I found that always brings a smile and tears every time I pick it up and read. It’s a letter from my mother to dad written on Aug. 14, 1945. It starts out “Dearest Jack”….the war that separated them for too long had ended.

Names indeed are important and certainly do make for interesting conversations in the course of our lives. This man whom I loved beyond description was Ira, John, Johnny, Jack, and Papa Jack. But to me he was  simply “dad” and sometimes “daddy” when my tender heart needed reassurance that he could correct the hurtfulness of the world around me, to show up in the midst of whatever mess I found myself in and be my knight, rescue me, offering hope and encouragement.

So, as I share this bit of family history with you today, I sit here doing so with a smile on my lips and a bounce in my spirit. In view of the fact that dad had put his trust and hope in Jesus Christ there is another name by which he is called. On the day dad accepted Christ he received a new name, one that is recorded in the Book of Life, written by God Himself and the great joy and mystery of that promise is that no one this side of Heaven knows what that name is or how it sounds. No matter–the mere essence and assurance of knowing this truth is good enough for me.  I have a new name waiting for me as well. I know my name is further down the page from dad’s, but for sure–it’s there, recorded for all of eternity. I’d like to think that God smiled the day He wrote “Jack, you’ve had several names but from this day forward you shall now be known as _______.”