I have a nickname. Want to know it? It’s Monkey.
Greg gave it to me years ago; so long in fact that we can’t recall its origin, but it has stuck with me for more than 30 years. I hope it isn’t because I look like one or act like one!
But having a nickname is a term of endearment. Not just anyone can call me by my nickname, though some have tried. No one has that privilege but Greg alone.
The other day, I heard Greg playing with our granddaughter Stella. They were giving nicknames to baby sister Lucy and Mommy, when I heard Greg say, “Stella, do you know what my name is?” “No,” she answered. I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard him say, “Call me Butterfly!” Believe me, there is nothing butterfly-like about Greg, but that is the name he chose for himself.
Terms of endearment are sometimes understood only by the two who share in that special relationship.
I have a unique, one-of-a-kind relationship with Greg, and he with me . . . and Stella.
So when I read that the apostle John refers to himself as the disciple whom Jesus loved, I understand how he felt about himself. There was an intimacy he had with our Lord, and we see it at the Last Supper when he leaned on Jesus’ breast.
Now think about that for a moment. How many people in your life have a right to do that? Not many. My husband, for sure. My two boys did, but even that mother-child relationship changed with time.
So really, most of us can count on one hand those we allow that privilege of leaning on our breast. And yet, we read John leaned on Jesus’ breast. So close that he was able to hear His heart beating. Ba boom, ba boom, ba boom. Imagine that!
As a child, I would think about how wonderful it would be to be like the saints whose pictures I’d see in my small white prayer book—all dressed in white, beatific looks on their faces, and a circle of yellow light behind their heads. I knew they were special. Like the winner in the Miss America pageant, only some received first, second, or third-place crowns. All the rest of us were just plain, ordinary girls.
But then, one day, at the ripe old age of 13, I heard for the first time that God so loved me that He gave his only begotten Son to die for me so I could have that intimate relationship with Him.
I can’t imagine the depth of love God has for the entire world that He would sacrifice His Son. I know how painful separation can be for a parent and child. There isn’t anyone I would sacrifice a child for. No one.
And yet, that is what God did for me . . . and you.
John reveled in that nearness. He had access to Jesus’ heart, and so do we.
So go ahead, take a nickname for yourself. I have. I am the girl Jesus loves.
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