A month ago today, my sister and her husband welcomed their second child and my eighth nephew into our world. Judah bears a strong resemblance to his paternal grandfather and has thankfully captured the heart of his older brother, Barrett. He’s a tiny dude even for a baby. He came from the factory with a subdued cry and curious eyes. Like almost every other newborn boy I’ve met, he somehow gives an adorable vibe to looking like both a small alien and a little old man. I don’t know how it works, but I instantly loved him—even before I met him in person.
The night before I got to hold Judah for the first time, I had to go outside to cry under bright autumn stars. It wasn’t Judah’s fault, but he was the reason.
See, four Saturday nights ago, I learned that my sister and her husband had given Judah an odd middle name. On purpose.
Ryan.
There is a kid on this earth named after me! Not a park bench or local street or academic building. A living, breathing human will carry my legacy for his whole life or at least until he decides it’s worth the trouble of legally changing his birth certificate and Social Security card.
It was a total surprise. As goal-driven as I am, it’s not even something I was striving for. I didn’t even consider that privilege as a possibility. I mean, I know it’s a thing; but I thought that deal was for incorporating a cool grandparent name or honoring an organ donor. Oh, and those soldiers, firemen, and accident victims who want to memorialize the person who saved their lives.
I’m none of those. I’m just an uncle, a brother, a brother-in-law. I take those roles seriously, but I’m not the Michael Jordan of brothering or the Martin Luther King, Jr. of unclehood. Turns out, though, you don’t have to be recognized by a hall of fame to feel like you’ve been enshrined in one. Maybe a better way to explain the feeling is overwhelmed. That’s what led me out to our cul-de-sac to pace, choked up with arms splayed open to an infinite sky. That’s why I got a lump in my throat, trying to talk to Jesus out loud after listening to my favorite worship song of 2020.
I’ve been comforting the wounded and confronting the brokenness in my family of origin for years while also addressing my own dysfunction in weekly therapy sessions. I’ve long felt like the black sheep of our herd, written off as a mercurial Peter Pan and shallow heretic. It’s not just my family. For most of my life, I’ve felt like I wasn’t good enough—sometimes even unworthy of love. It’s taken decades for Jesus to convince me otherwise about my relationship with him; but I feel like I’ve earned or have needed to earn the trust, respect, and affection of everyone else in my life. Even little kids. Even my nephews.
That’s why I’ve written books and visited every continent. That’s why I’ve chased evidence of bravery in the Arctic and on the wings of aerobatic biplanes. That’s why public speaking and social media have been narcotics for me. It’s the ugly, annoying boy in me with too much riding on that first show’n’tell after summer break. And then on all the quartlery report cards afterward.
Judah was named after the Lion of Judah. That’s one of the poetic names given to Jesus of Nazareth. And Jesus has been speaking truth into the lies I’ve long believed, especially this year. Usually, he whispers those rebuttals with Scripture verses, song lyrics, or the unprompted words from a friend. Sometimes, he speaks through the rebukes of my therapist or the paragraphs of nonfiction authors. And sometimes he shouts through incredible gifts.
Gifts like a boy who will be a man someday—a full-grown hombre who will probably have to eventually explain his 1970’s middle name. “Oh, that was my uncle’s name. He was cool … a little weird but a good dude.”
I hope I live the rest of my life doing whatever impacted Emily and Zach enough to name Judah after me. Actually, I plan to do more of that stuff than I do now. More sitting with the hurting, more defending the disenfranchised, more writing cards when I get a sovereign buzz in my rib cage. I want to keep praying with friends, keep helping people half my height feel seen, keep exploring with wonder. I purpose to keep working on my heart, nourishing my soul, and fighting the infection from past wounds.
Emily—speaking for Jesus—told me that I didn’t have to do anything more to live up to the honor she and Zach gave me. So, I won’t try to earn something they have already freely given. But I’m going to live as though my name is good enough for two people because, apparently, it is. I’m going to lean into life with the confidence of someone whose legacy won’t just outlive him but will walk around with it on two legs. I’m going to chase life and legacy with a roar, and I’m going to teach a lion cub how to get his shouts to reverberate louder than the echoes of his uncle.
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Stock lion images purchased from iStockPhoto.com
Other photos courtesy of Lydia Bunke
