what's in a name

When I was a little girl I remember hearing a story about my grandmother. It fascinated me and sometimes I had a hard time believing it. On the one hand my grandma was known for always having the best snacks, planning an adventurous day at the pool or an afternoon bowling for me and my sister, or buying us unnecessary toys, like the pom poms Tavia and I got at the store down the street from her house. Those green pom poms thoroughly entertained us and we were cheerleaders the whole summer long. My grandma as I remember her was the one that invited me to snuggle when it was too late to be up, or made an ordinary afternoon into a glamorous beauty pageant because she was always designing us a new dress that we modeled as she adjusted the length. She listened to the stories that my parents were too busy to hear with all the other distractions going on. She was truly delightful.

I heard a story told about her a few times growing up. Maybe she even told me herself once. I can vaguely recall standing next to her while she was washing dishes one evening, and asking her about it. I believe it went something like this…One day my grandma was returning home from the store or an errand of some kind and she had only just moved to Florida from New York to be with us. She was living in a community, lot 35, off of Beach Blvd, which ironically was nowhere near a beach. Shortly after entering her house she found that she was being robbed at gunpoint. She said there were two men and they had bags full of things they were stealing. And this is the part that gets me, as the story goes; she said that when she found herself face to face with them, all she could do was shout the name of Jesus over and over. And I guess it freaked them out so much that they dropped what they had in their hands and fled the scene.

As a little kid I loved hearing the retelling of this story, just because I always felt perplexed that right there in my own family, my sweet huggable grandma, was a real live evidential story of how Jesus’ name had power to it. It wasn’t just something people sang about, apparently it really worked. Of course little kids love stories where the bad guys loose and Grandma lives, but I remember thinking, as I grew up, more about that story and how much faith she seemed to have, that she would think to call on Jesus’ name when faced with such a scary situation. Sure, people believe in Jesus as a savior, thus one who saves, but in the practical, how often do we think, “Ah, forget grabbing the bat to knock one of these guys out and dropkick the gun out of his hand, no I think I will call out the name of Jesus?” As a little kid, I often thought that if I were ever in real danger, I would try to remember to do the same thing. I haven’t thought much about that story, probably not in years, but the other night it all came back to me.
Since being here in the Philippines I have been working with an organization called Samaritana and they labor to empower women by providing several alternatives to those involved in prostitution. Once a week I get to tag along with a staff worker to high traffic areas to speak with several women. My eyes can see that I live in a very naïve world. The masks of fluff and romance that come to mind when someone says mission work fall quickly as I walk the streets of Cubao. My eyes meet her eyes. She is the girl working the stairs just ahead. She’s too young, maybe 15. Her makeup is thick, her demeanor - tough. Something in me shakes. She’s working to survive, to eat tonight, to feed her baby who she never intended on having, or to pay rent for a space that should in no way be called home. And as we pass her I watch another woman who scurries along, she says hello to us but she can’t talk, she’s with a customer. As I glance at the next woman, I can see the cares of the world hanging in her cheeks and she has fear in her eyes as she recalls the threats of the past week. I see through the dark streets that the women here are only a few inches away from each another, yet alone, and the stares of the men who come to prey on them are all too many to count. We pick up our pace, it’s dangerous here and the women seem to multiply. I can not keep up, there are too many of them. I nearly step on someone sleeping in the walkway. I can see there are tiny feet poking out from underneath the cardboard. It is a child about three years old and nearby her mother is careless, only concerned with her evening employment as she continues to work these streets. There is no thought that can remedy this. I feel desperate and everything in me wants to shout out Jesus. There’s no other thought, no other response, just this overwhelming feeling. I have never felt so fraught to see evil end and for justice to come. My world back home does not lend itself to moments like these.
During the past two weeks I’ve felt this way during the outreaches and I can’t explain it except that I found myself face to face with some things that are very wrong in this world and things that I have no control over. It makes me think no dropkick even by the toughest person could fix this wrong, (although part of me wants to try), but that it will take someone much more powerful, someone who does have control…
Sometimes the women look away; they clearly don’t want to be seen by us. I want to call out “Beautiful” and for them to know it’s their name. I want all of their identity, what has been stolen from them to be placed at their feet, returned to them, as their predators flee the scene of their lives. For them to know they are loved by God and created by Him, for them to recognize they were created for something great…that when they call his name He hears them. The times I have been on the street I’ve been a little surprised at this feeling of helplessness, this need to have Jesus hear me. Overwhelmed, I felt maybe for the first time in my life, a longing, an urgency for Him to return and make things right.