Her Name is Grace

Grace. Most of my life I have joked, in a sorta self-deprecating way, about being glad my parents didn't name me Grace. For a child with a neuromuscular disease who falls down more often than most people scratch their noses, that name would have been a horror.

Horrific like it must have been for some of the Old Testament characters, such as poor Reuben. Now, Reuben doesn't sound that disastrous to our 21st century ears. (I hear that name and start salivating.) Yet, back in the day, before corned beef, it was a tough moniker to carry. Reuben was the first- born son to unloved Leah whose husband, Jacob, pined away for her lovelier sister, Rachael. Reuben means "God has seen my distress. Maybe now my husband will love me."

(I have compassion for Leah, but seriously woman, what were you thinking! What kind of mother would shred her son's tender little newborn psyche with such callous disregard. I hope little "My daddy loves another woman and not my mommy" was an athletic child. Recess could have been hell.)

Not to be outdone by parents of ancient times, we have some modern-day sadists. A quick internet search of "worst baby names" yielded jewels such as: Richard Little, Meconium, I'am, Soosyn, Latrina.


And, then there are the hapless parents who give their sons perfectly good names like Earl or Ralph, which any high school or college student will tell you are NOT good names. (Do YOU want to go through life with a name that means "to vomit on somebody's shoes after a rowdy frat party?" No, I didn't think so. Fortunately, these names are diminishing in popularity.)

But, I digress. We were discussing my adoration of my parents and my "I don't care if you beat me in childhood, thank God you didn't name me Grace" gratitude. (No, they didn't really beat me. It's a literary device called hyperbole. Look it up.) Any name but that! Even Meconium (baby poop in the womb) would be preferable.

This past weekend, however, I had a dawning realization that disability CAN be graceful. I spent an afternoon watching videos on YouTube of amazing feats of athleticism as people demonstrated their determined strength and creativity in moving their disabled bodies. What once seemed to me as pitifully awkward now appeared as intelligent artistry.

It's no accident that later that weekend I went to the ballet for the first time in many years. As I sat there watching people dance on legs that were rippled with muscles and doing moves that surely defied the laws of physics, I was struck by the similarity between what I saw on that stage and what I had viewed on YouTube. In my mind's eye, those lithe ballerinas and those people crawling from the floor into their wheelchairs became one. One in spirit, in beauty, in determination, in dedication, in mastery, in courage. Oh, and most of all, one in Grace.

My parents may not have named me Grace, but I hope that's the "new name" that God has chosen for me.