This is what my life looks like when I have no idea what to write. Or, more accurately, how to write it.
Yes, that is a crumpled Rice Krispies Treats wrapper.
What you don’t see is the clock ticking towards midnight and the dirty dishes piled on the kitchen counter across from me.
(Snatched minutes, y’all.)
I worked 8 years as a TV news producer. In my head I always have a plan. And then I have a back-up plan. And then I have a back-up plan to the back-up plan.
Live television will train you that way.
So will motherhood.
I decided last weekend what Monday’s and today’s blog would be. I created a flow and connected the content.
It sounded better in my head than it looks in black-and-white.
But true to my background in journalism, I am determined to meet my deadline.
This blog was born out of gratitude for my name and the identity it created for me. I carried my daddy’s name, “Echols”, for 29 years until I married and took my husband’s. While my original last name may be replaced, it cannot be removed. It shaped my story far beyond my birth certificate.
And I cannot discount “Carlisle”, which is my mother’s maiden name. On my first day of 10th grade I sat in a desk in the very back of health class. As the teacher connected names to faces, she looked at me and said, “Your last name is Echols but you’re a Carlisle if I’ve ever seen one.” Turns out she had taught my mom and her 6 sisters. Fifteen years had passed in between. I guess a teacher doesn’t forget a family of 7 girls.
Last names brand us. They set us apart. (How many Mikes, Matts and Lauras do you know?!) But first names also carry a weight of recognition. I shared in Monday’s post how mine came to be. (My middle name, by the way, is Denise after my daddy, Dennis.)
Parents pore over possibilities as they plan for a new baby. They consider name trends or family traditions or root meanings.
Jeff and I were super scientific in our selections. (And I’m being super sarcastic in that sentence.)
He wanted to give our firstborn, Abby Kate, a name beginning with the letter ‘A.’ Each of his sisters had done so, whether by intention or accident. For our second girl, “Lily” was not either of our first choices. We didn’t agree on her name until after she was born and we had to have one. (But Lily Potter is one of my favorite literary characters, so yay!)
Both girls are eager to tell you what their names mean; “A Father’s Joy” and “Beautiful Flower,” respectively.
What I want them to know is that their name isn’t really that important.
It is our choices that determine our identity and we, not our parents, are responsible for those.
I considered people I know who can uphold this idea. Three ladies leapt to mind.
Misty is authentic. For the 10 years I have known her she has displayed unwavering passion for empowering women and advocating their rights.
Nona is compassionate. She feels deeply for every student and family that crosses the threshold of Creekside Primary and Elementary Schools where she works (serves!) as assistant principal.
Tracey is trustworthy. She will keep a secret and her word, and she carries the utmost career reputation in the local television news industry.
None of these women outright aspire to these legacies; that would imply ego which none of them exhibits. But the choices they make create their identity and, by extension, shape their story.
Just like Misty, Nona and Tracey, we get to choose every day what our story will be.
My daddy is another example.
He got into a lot of mischief as a boy. It is probably even fair to say he was a troublemaker. He and his buddies would throw things to knock out streetlights. If memory serves, one of those things was a trashcan lid and it did not end well for daddy.
His speech was not very good growing up. And, he had a temper (which he never really outgrew.) When he played baseball and didn’t like a call, he would curse the umpires. But mom says he spoke so poorly that no one could understand what he was saying.
In high school daddy made the decision to follow Jesus. As his choices started to change, so did his story.
His name began to transform from trouble and temper to honor and integrity.
Carrying Dennis Echols’ name, especially as his only daughter, wasn’t always easy but it had perks.
When I turned 16-years-old and started to drive, daddy would send me to John’s, a local gas station, to fill up my tank. I didn’t need money. I just told the gas station attendant to put it on Dennis Echols’ tab. When daddy left the coal mines coming home from work, he would stop to pay the bill.
That’s the value of a name built on honorable choices. And daddy’s name was worth far more than a fill-up of gas.
I searched my letters from him, looking for insight or advice that would align with what I’m trying to write.
I found this one written in the summer of 1997, and I think it fits.
“It also bring me great joy & comfort that you are serving God with your life and talent. This is what I have try to impress upon all 3 of ya’ll to do. I hope & pray I have done something to encourage ya’ll to do just that.”
In his last days with Alzheimer’s disease daddy couldn’t remember much. But mom says the night before he went into the hospital (for a procedure he would not recover from) he remembered my brothers and me. Mom says he told her “We’ve got good kids.”
He does have good kids. Not because he named us well, but because he taught us well.
Choices.
“A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches, and favor is better than silver or gold.”
(Proverbs 22:1)
