A Beautiful Name

        My name means “princess.” I like that! It also means “mother of all nations.” I’m not crazy about that. Too much responsibility! How ’bout we stick with the royal angle!

        When I was born, “Sarah” wasn’t popular. In fact, it ranked #138^th.

        A name that far down the list didn’t rate recognition—even on Romper Room*, a TV show I watched daily before I was old enough to go to actual school. Every day I sat patiently (or not so patiently), eyes glued on Miss I-Forgot-Her-Name’s face as she looked through her Magic Mirror and spoke those mesmerizing words:

“Romper, bomper, stomper, boo. Tell me, tell me, tell me do.

Magic mirror, tell me today. Did all my friends have fun at play?”

        Miss I-Forgot-Her-Name spied Lindas, Debbies, MaryAnns. etc. But Sarahs? Not once ever! My wounded little heart! Of course she wouldn’t call my name. I mean, one ranking #138 down the popularity list? No way.

        But my name wasn’t chosen for its popularity, which you’ve already gathered by now. I was, instead, named after one of my ancestors.

        Great-Grandmother Sarah descended from Pennsylvania Dutch folks who fled persecution in Germany—this group historically known as Palatine immigrants. Many of these hard-working families settled in the United States and farmed, for the most part. She descended from survivors and was one herself. After all, she and her husband buried four of their eight children within a very short time. I don’t know how she endured that—how she went on living. But she did.

       I think Great-Grandmother Sarah must’ve been and incredible woman. All I learned about her was from my mother who spoke lovingly of her grandma and shared warm memories of summers when she and her siblings spent time on the farm.

        Thus, I realized my rare name was selected with care, and I decided Sarah was a fine name. What an honor!

        But I was the one and only Sarah in school all thirteen years.

        In elementary school, when our teacher was absent, a substitute took her place. On those days we students were to place our handmade paper name placards on our desks to help the “temp.”

        One particular time, the substitute walked down the row where I sat, paused, and eyed my name placard. “Sarah,” she said matter-of-factly.

        Uh oh. What’d I do wrong now? Will I be sent to stand in the hallway? Will she smell my breath to see if I was chewing gum? Did she see me passing a note to my classmate?

        Nope. She addressed none of those things. Instead, she smiled and said, “Sarah. What a beautiful name!”

        I sat a little taller that day. And the next time I wrote my name atop the manilla lined paper, I took great care penning each letter.

        As an adult, this “princess” came to love her name—even though by now Sarah has made a comeback more than once. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, yes. I do own a crown. It just seemed fitting, and—hey—it only cost a buck at the dollar store!

***

       There’s a name that wasn’t chosen by either the man of the house or his betrothed. Instead, an angel told the betrothed mother-to-be that her son (yes, a simultaneous gender-reveal and naming announcement) would be named Jesus and come to bring salvation to His people. He could do that—save them from their sins.

        Jesus. “Salvation.” The Savior of the world, in every sense—including dying on a cross and rising from the dead—lived up to His Name. Fulfilled God’s divine plan to bring salvation to this lost world.

        Not only did the Baby’s gender reveal and naming take place simultaneously, but God’s purpose in His coming to earth as man was imparted to that mother as well. Then the Babe’s step-father, then shepherds, and the list goes on.

        Jesus! Not categorized on a popularity list. No. For Jesus is the Name above all names. What a beautiful name!

I Know of a Name

I Know Of A Name, A Beautiful Name - Christmas Hymn Lyrics & Music

I know of a Name, a beautiful Name, that unto a Babe was giv'n;
The stars glittered bright thru’out that glad night, & angels praised God in heaven.

Refrain: That beautiful Name, that beautiful Name, from sin has pow'r to free us!
That beautiful Name, that wonderful Name, that matchless Name is Jesus!

The One of that Name, my Savior became, my Savior of Calvary;
My sins nailed Him there, my burdens He bare, He suffered all this for me. [Refrain]

I love that blest Name, that wonderful Name, made higher than all in heav'n;
’Twas whispered, I know, in my heart long ago—to Jesus my life I’ve giv'n. [Refrain]

(a portion of the hymn, by Jean Perry, 1916, public domain)

#beautifulname #namemeaning #RomperRoom #greatgrandma #Palatine #Jesus #nameaboveallnames

*TV show for children, running from 1953 till 1994

Photo Credit: Romper Room teacher w/ magic mirror—ar.inspiredpencil.com, 1950’s classroom—br.pinterest.com, 

Mary w/ angel—freebibleimages.com, “Jesus”—ar.inspiredpencil.com   

Letter to a Dead Woman

        “Sarah, do you often write to dead people?” you might ask.

        “Nope. This is a first and likely last, but who knows.” (Wink!)

        Why did I do this? Actually, there’s a fairly good reason—at least in my twisted mind.

        Back up five years—

        Our developmentally disabled son expressed wanting to write his life story, even though it was far beyond his ability; yet Min held to his conviction adding, “I want to do this for my birth mother.”

        Who could argue with that? But we cautioned our son. 1) This would challenge him to the core. 2) He must tell the truth even when it hurts. 3) There’d be no quitting mid-stream.

        He said, “I’m good with that.”

        So, I offered to be Min’s scribe and Brian technical advisor, but we all needed to bathe this idea in prayer.

        Seven months later we began.

        Prior to our start date, though, Min’s literary agent called. “You and Brian need to figure how you’ll handle backstory.”

        I didn’t have a clue, but that set me to thinkin’—and prayin’. Then a few nights later I woke saying aloud, “Letters!” I jumped out of bed, shuffled to the living room, put on a night light, and scrawled notes.

        Ideas flowed.

        Next morning, I filled Brian in on the letters idea to tell backstory, etc. He like it and added a few more future “recipients” and—ahem—“authors” to the list.

        The completed letters were penned before, during, and after the actual memoir. A Home for Min Soo—Putting Together the Pieces of My Life now holds ones that made the cut—some bringing laughter, some tears.

        For this third anniversary of the book’s release, I share with you the letter I penned—yes—to a dead woman. As you read, maybe you’ll understand why this mom composed it. It appears here in its unedited form (a portion of which isn’t in the completed manuscript).

                                                                       Autumn of 2008

Dear Mrs. Beethoven,                                                              

            This letter comes to share the impact your story had on me in relation to our son. When I mentioned you to him, he asked, “Is she dead?”

            “Quite,” I replied.

            “Did she die before Reagan was President?”

            “Way before. Even a hundred years before Lincoln,” I replied.

            “Was Grandma alive when he was President?”

            “Lincoln?”

            “No. Reagan. Lincoln got shot and died. Reagan got shot too, but he didn’t die.”

            “Not then,” I said. “He did later.”

            “Before I was born?”

            “After.”

            A jovial voice chimed in from the other room, “Who’s on first?”

            “I don’t know,” I said, “and you’re not helping, Brian Hampshire!”

            “I don’t know is on third,” he shouted back.

            “Who said that?” Min asked.

            “Your Dad,” I answered.

            “No. I mean on TV.”

            “Oh.” I laughed. “Abbott and Costello—their famous baseball routine.”

            “Are they dead?”

            I nodded.

            “After he got shot?” Min asked.

            “After who?”

            “President Reagan. He was a movie star. Did he know Abbott and Costello?”

            “I don’t know,” I said.

            “I don’t know is still on third,” came another interruption from the other room.

            Min always asks if a person is dead. He’s predictable that way.

            When my sister and I were young, our family sponsored a Korean orphan through World Vision.

Min saw his photo in my keepsake basket and asked about him, along with an old World Vision Magazine with the Korean Orphan Choir pictured on front. “They’re wearing hanboks!”

            “Yep. They toured in the United States, and we went to hear them sing.” I remembered a YouTube video of the orphan choir singing on Art Linkletter’s Hollywood Talent Scout Show! “Wanna hear them?

            “Yeah.” Min wondered aloud if any might be family.           

            “On one tour a deaf girl sang in sign language.”

            “Deaf like Beethoven,” he exclaimed. 

            “Hmm. Hadn’t thought of that.”

            At the end, Art Linkletter explained the children were orphaned, like he’d been.

            “He was an orphan too?” Min asked.

            “Apparently.”

            “Is he dead?”

Remember, Mrs. Beethoven. This started with a question about you, a dead woman with a tragic history that struck a chord with me. How did you—thought of as a sour note by your husband —overcome your discordant life and turn it into a symphony through your son, Ludwig?

            One day Min came home from middle school and asked, “What’s a retard?”

            I went wide-eyed. “A not-very-nice way of saying someone has a mental disability. Did someone call you that?”

            “Maybe,” he said quietly. “Am I a retard?”

            I hesitated. “Retarded, yes.”

            Min looked horrified. “That’s not very nice!”

            “You asked, and we always said we’d be honest, even about hard stuff. The noun ‘retard’ isn’t nice, but the verb ‘retard’ or ‘retarded’ shares another definition.

            Our son adores dictionaries. He’ll read one over a story any day, so my mentioning “definition” caught his attention.

            “Shall I explain?” I asked.

            Min nodded and situated himself on the couch.

            I thumbed through our music books, pulled out a concerto, and sat next to Min—opening it midway and pointing to a word on the page. “Read that.”

            “I can’t read cursive,” he argued. “Is it okay to say cursive since it has ‘curse’ in it?”

            “You’re changing the subject, and it’s not cursive. Just fancy-like.” I tapped my finger near the word. “Read it.”

            “Retard.” He bobbed his head back in surprise.

            “It’s a musical term. When you asked if you’re retarded and I said yes, that just means you think slower.”

            “Because of NF?”

            “Probably, or the other undiagnosed genetic something. In music, though, it’s part of the masterpiece.”

            “Oh. Can I get a snack?”

            “Sure.”

            Why write this to you, Mrs. Beethoven? Because our sons hold something in common. Genius? In a way. For your son? Music, of course. Despite Ludwig’s disability, he continued his life’s work.

Min’s genius? Perhaps the fact he hears a song and knows what production’s background music it is (some of these works composed by your son, by the way).

            I imagine you find this a mockery compared to Ludwig’s gift, but please stick with me. Recognizing the background music? Likely due to his Asperger’s. But Min’s true giftedness comes from his heart!

            First his rocks. Nothing special about most of those. He likes small ones best, fingering them repeatedly.

            One time Min visited our Kentucky neighbor, showed her his rocks, and explained about them. Brenda listened and realized to Min they held great value.

            When Brenda lost a loved one, Min picked a favorite rock and placed it in her mailbox.

           When she fetched her mail, Brenda knew who’d been there and why. Later she shared, “That was the sweetest thing a child ever did for me…it filled me with happiness and love for Min.” And others in our holler who experienced loss also found rocks in their mailboxes.

            Then this: When visitors were leaving our home, we had to urge Min to come out of his room, be polite, and say good-bye. Once, though, when his nephews and niece were heading home, Min came without prompting. He lifted his niece in a tight embrace.

            Our granddaughter’s face beamed, and she squealed with delight. “Uncle Min hugged me! He never hugged me before!”

            And then Min’s prayers. He doesn’t articulate beautifully, but God honors his simple words, answering more times than we could count. Our son recognizes this and comments, “God must really love me.”

            Mrs. Beethoven, your son continues to be revered worldwide.

            Min will leave his mark too, being remembered by all who received a rock, a hug, or answer to one of his prayers.

            You see, the music of our son’s heart are his masterpieces. The little rocks? His Moonlight Sonata. The first hug? His Fur Elise. Those simple prayers? His Ode to Joy.

            What pride we mothers share as we ponder our sons’ gifts!

                                                            With a symphony playing in my heart,

                                                            one realizing there’s purpose in her discordant note

         And now, please join me in listening (or singing along, if you wish) to a most uplifting hymn—melody selected from Mrs. Beethoven’s son’s 9^th Symphony!

Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee

~words by Henry van Dyke, 1907~

~music composed by Ludwig van Beethoven, 1824~

ODE TO JOY-JOYFUL, JOYFUL, WE ADORE THEE at ROYAL ALBERT HALL,LONDON

 

#developmentaldisability #Aspergers #neurofibromatosis #adoption #giftedness #music

#Beethoven #AHomeforMinSoo #memoir #KimMinSooauthor

Photo Credit:

Mrs. Beethoven—blogspot.com, memoir—Trisha White Priebe, Ludwig van Beethoven—areacorari.com