My Morning Talks with God Vol 1

That is Not my Name R ecently I had the opportunity to go with our church to a women’s retreat for the first time. I was nervous, unexpecting and very much out of my comfort zone. I am an introvert and like my safe zone at home. The thought of potentially sharing a bedroom with people I did not know for 3 days was crippling. So, subconsciously, I dawned my comfort mask and drove. The retreat location was something out of a dream. It felt serine and safe... much like the presence of the Holy Spirit. I knew as soon as I stepped out of the car, my mask was not required as a shield. Fast forward to the worship service the following morning. I entered the chapel expecting encouragement and to be filled with the meat and potatoes of the scripture. I got my notebook, pens, pencils, highlighters, sticky notes, and Bible ready! We dug deep into who the bible says we are vs who the world says we are as women. Then came the salt... and the poking… and the opening of old, deep wounds. We were tasked with making a list of EVERY hurtful name and description we had been called by the world. Words cannot portray the hurt I instantly felt as the exposure washed over me. These are things I buried deep inside. As I tried to write them down, the old feelings immediately came flooding back to the surface as if these events were happening all over again in real time. Please understand, it is not just the words that hurt… It is the whole screen play that was set off in my mind of each name and occurrence. I was reliving every situation in a constant un-ending, full color loop of hurtful memories. All I could do was weep. I did not want to do this. I even said aloud between sobs “I do not want to do this.” Immediately my sisters wrapped their arms around me, and I could feel the comfort of the Holy Spirit holding my hand and He began guiding my pen. Uncontrollable tears smeared the ink as I wrote the first word. My hand was trembling, and I tried hiding my list with the other for fear of judgement. Acknowledgement of the events is now stamped in ink on the paper in front of me. Word after word after word flooded from my beautiful pen that was purchased to write beautiful notes of encouragement, now tainted with the horrors of a past life. What felt like hours ended in a matter of minutes. We were then instructed to take the paper, fold it up and close our eyes. Now clear your mind and imagine walking up to Jesus and handing him the folded-up piece of paper. Reluctancy to write the list is now magnified by infinity. I felt like I was wading through mud. Even though I knew He already knew what was on the paper and He had been with me through all of them; I did not want to hand it to him. Head hung low, uncontrollably sobbing, I found that I could not look Him in the eyes as I placed that disgusting piece of paper in his perfectly scarred hand. SHAME. These are the names the world had given me. Vile, ugly, derogatory names that I was carrying around with me behind the mask that I kept putting on. Gone…. just like that. The page was now empty. Washed by the blood of the Lamb. “What is my name, Lord?” “Mine.” “Yahweh God said, “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make him a helper comparable to him.” -Genesis 2:18 God describes women as Ezer Kenegdo in the scriptures. We are quite literally named after God. Ezer – meaning help mate, used in military terms, and used for God as Israel’s helper. To rescue, to save and to be strong. Kenegdo – corresponding to or to compliment. A warrior for God. That is the name that God has given me. I am His warrior. The worldly names that we carry can be erased in His hands. Give it to Him. I encourage you to fight through the pain and find redemption. Through my suffering His glory is seen and oh what a beautiful thing it is. -My Morning Talks with God