This time a year ago, Mrs. Sweetie and I were anxiously awaiting the birth of our first grand baby. All of our friends who were already in the grandparents club were constantly telling us how our lives were going to change, how wonderful it would be, and the other fun and silly things that grandparents say to each other.
One of the most common questions I got was, “What is your grandparent name going to be?” My answer was always, “Grandpa.” I have known for most of my life that I would someday be Grandpa. My dad is Grandpa to my kids. His dad was Grandpa to me. There really never has been any question.
Of course, when I gave my clear and definitive answer, those other grandparents would give me a knowing grin and respond with, “You’ll be called whatever your first grandchild decides to call you.”
I had a response for that, too: In what other context do we let an immature, illiterate, incontinent person with a speech impediment decide the official name by which someone or something will be known from now on?
And then she arrived. And at almost a year old now, she’s brilliant and beautiful and has me wrapped around her little finger. But a few days ago, she called another little girl “kitty cat” and started petting her. She can call me whatever she wants, but I’m Grandpa!
I can, and do, make jokes about it (and most everything else), but what we call each other really does matter. The official names may be ok, but what about the unofficial ones? Loser … Disappointment … Dummy … Jerk … Incompetent … Pain. I didn’t try to make a long list or to try to be current, but you get the point. We often throw around words so carelessly, without considering their power.
We often throw words around carelessly, without considering their power. Click To Tweet
One of my favorite Biblical illustrations of this point is found in Genesis 35. Rachel, the wife of Jacob (whose name God changed to Israel in Genesis 32) was giving birth to her second son and was in distress in the process. Genesis 35:17-18 says, “When she was in severe labor the midwife said to her, ‘Do not fear, for now you have another son.’ It came about as her soul was departing (for she died), that she named him Ben-oni; but his father called him Benjamin.”
This is a sad story that could have been even sadder, but for the choice of a wise and sensitive father. With her dying breath, Rachel names her son Ben-oni: son of my sorrow. Imagine how the boy’s life might have been being reminded every day of the sorrow he brought to his dying mother.
But his father called him Benjamin: son of my right hand. Now, instead of “little sorrow bringer,” this boy was known as “Daddy’s right hand man.” I can’t help but believe that set the course of his life.
How will we choose our words to help those we love know just how much their lives matter to God?
