The little people in my life call me by different names. My biological nieces and nephews refer to me as “Uncle Mac.” Most of the children at the crosswalk at church call me “Mr. Ryan.” Some of my friends’ kids drop the Mr. for just “Ryan.” My two-year-old disc golf buddy recently started saying my first name only as an exclamation, somehow with equal emphasis on both syllables. Think about how child ninjas say, “Hi-yah!” when chopping the air; and you’ve pretty much got it. Up until these declarations, though, Colton used a name I hadn’t heard in years.
Back when my friends were other third and fourth graders, school kids called me a word I still don’t know how to spell. “Rynee.” Or maybe “Ryney”? “I’ll take ‘RYNIE’ for $600, Alex.” Pennsylvania students sang it: “Rynie’s heinie’s black and shiny!” The song preceded giggles, despite me rarely getting spanked and never to a point of bruising. (My teachers paddled me only with other teachers as witnesses, and my dad never swung his belt excessively or in anger.) My new friends south of the Mason-Dixon stretched “Rynie” out a bit, especially in the vowels.
Colton—thirty five years later and in yet another state of residence for me—didn’t know any of this. He had never heard anyone else call me “Rynie.” It must’ve just been easier to say. The first time he said it, I got sudden flashbacks to both an old, knotty pine kitchen and the dark hallways of a school in a church’s basement. And then I smiled. I was just happy Colton wanted to call me by name.
Colton has a hero for a daddy, an amazing woman for a mom. Both Jared & Jodi are pilots, and both tell me they use time with me as an incentive for obedience and good attitudes. All three of us use time in my “race car” to help Colton persevere through an entire round of grownup disc golf. Colton sends me videos from his mom’s phone and watches my videos a dozen times in a row, like tykes are want to do. Jodi found me in a Target greeting card aisle earlier this year, because Colton saw my MINI in the parking lot and couldn’t not go into the store to search for Rynie.
I asked Jodi after that encounter where she thought Colton’s seemingly-random affinity for me originated. She answered, “He feels seen. You get down on his level.” I’ve replayed that answer over and over again since then.
We all want to be seen on our level. We all want the big people in our world to smile at us, to lower their faces to ours, to affirm our efforts. We want those further along in life to talk with us as equals. We want those who seem all done—all grown up—to treat us like we are, too. This undercurrent keeps social media afloat. These desires lead to car payments and mortgages beyond prudence. These insecurities can push us to constructive self-improvement or inauthentic personas, hard work or cheating, striving or faking.
Over the past two years of professional counseling and a lot of time alone with Jesus in the woods, I’ve become more comfortable with others’ tall-ness, grown-ness, and perception of all-together-ness. I’ve fallen in love with a Creator who knelt in the Bible to wash feet, to scribble next to someone’s mistress, and to help children up onto his knee. I’ve sat in his lap. I’ve asked him, “Can I hold you?” over and over again, sometimes with tears in my eyes.
I’ve attended church for forty years now. I’ve called Jesus the equivalent of “Rynie” for most of those years. Okay: all of them. I’ve used the wrong words to pray, the wrong theology to explain the world, and the wrong ideas on how to approach him. Unbeknownst to me, I’ve spoken callbacks to when religious elites mocked Jesus. Without awareness, I’ve reminded God of the hypocrites who didn’t understand who he was.
Thankfully, Jesus has understood that I didn’t know all of that. The Trinity didn’t stop smiling on me, didn’t cease rewarding my tiny steps forward with a sense of heavenly pleasure. God knows I am a toddler. At best.
I know this sounds weird, but I have experienced moments that can be described as Jesus getting on his knees and looking into my eyes. I’ve felt known and seen for who and where I am—and still utterly loved. I’ve wanted to spend time with him. I’ve used that solace time on dusty trails as an incentive to get my work done, to have a good attitude. An affinity for Jesus has blossomed as a response to seeing Jesus on my level—not as someone frail or sinful or broken like me. No, I’ve seen someone who is all the things I’m not, all the things I want to be, but who still wants to hang out with me.
The Apostle Paul wrote, “It is God’s kindness that leads us to repentance.” I know that full well. The triune Source of grace, mercy, and truth has been kind-ing me to new mindsets, better behavior, and moments of transcendence. I feel more alive than ever. I’ve heard others use a better name for Jesus, and I’ve learned to say it with gusto. I have that confidence, because I know no matter what I call him, he’ll hold out his index finger and let me wrap my little fingers around it while we walk to the next basket on the course.
He might even let me throw his orange shark disc from the next tee pad.
