Emmaus Walk / Debra Tomaselli

What’s in your name? Whatever it is, it’s a beautiful thing

Moments before friends and family gathered for the launch of my new book, My Emmaus Walk, True Stories of Faith, Hope and Inspiration, someone knocked on my door. It was Mary, our neighbor, and she handed me a wrapped gift. “This is from me, Karen and Katy,” she said. “You’ll want to open it now.”

I removed the floral gift-wrap, and gently opened the slim box. Inside, nestled on velvet padding, was an elegant silver pen.

I looked up, astounded. Mary was beaming. “We thought this might come in handy today!” she said.

I smiled. “Definitely!”

“We didn’t have time to get it engraved,” she said, “so if you give it back to me tomorrow, I’ll do that. What are your initials?”

I’m not wild about my initials, D.A.T., but after the launch, I gave her the pen anyway. Days later, when she returned the pen, I didn’t expect much. However, when I opened the box, the exquisite silver pen, now engraved, took my breath away. In script it read: “Debra Tomaselli.”

The sight captivated me. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Simply the fact that it was my full name, not those silly initials … moved me. It filled me with such joy.

Debra Tomaselli: It spoke my name.

The script was … beautiful … just beautiful. Suddenly, I felt an ownership with this gift pen that claimed a spot in my new ministry—the endeavors of book writing—and my friends who gifted it to me.

After all, their unspoken support was engraved in this pen, but more importantly, etched in my heart. They called me by name.

Debra Tomaselli.

With it, I began to wonder: what’s in a name?

I remember the first time my name meant something to me.

It was in first grade. I can still envision the strip of white poster board and the big block letters written with black marker, spelling out my name: Debbie Holmes.

At first, the print looked foreign. The letters made no sense to me. I needed help finding and identifying my name and my desk.

With time, however, the jumbled print fell into place. I began to recognize my name. It looked different than the others. Little changes here and there. And it began to click in.

My name gave me power. It was mine; nobody else’s. My name defined who I was. It claimed my space in that classroom. It said I belonged.

Names are powerful. I believe God meant it to be that way.

Think of the name of Jesus. Think of the great I AM. Think of Saul, who, once converted, became the great Apostle Paul.

Your name is slightly different than others. It’s distinct. It defines you. It calls you to the purposes of God. Figure out that jumbled print. Heed that calling. It not only says you belong, but who you belong to.

A name is a beautiful thing. Don’t waste it.
 

(Debra Tomaselli writes from Altamonte Springs, Florida. She can be reached at dtomaselli@cfl.rr.com.) †