Called By Name

I sit at the piano bench in the campus dance studio, where I sit twice a week to accompany ballet classes part-time. This job isn't like some I've had in the past, where I gather with co-workers in the break room to chat about the weekend or laugh at their jokes. Instead, I greet the instructor with a "Good morning," play for a classroom of college dance students, then lock my music books in the cabinet, place the piano bench on top of the piano, roll it against the wall, and walk the approximate mile back to my car, parked on a side street downtown.

The male instructor is fairly new, strict with the students, but nice---in a professional, formal way of being nice---thanking me after each class and shaking my hand, unless he is otherwise bombarded by questioning students.

He directs the class at a fast pace and dictates instructions through a heavy accent, so I must mentally stay on my toes to keep up with what he is requesting of me. After demonstrating each exercise to the students, he looks at me with a strike of his hand in the air and calls out in a strong voice, "Maestro!" 

And the music, with the four-count preparation, begins.

Sometimes, after already giving me my call, he sees that the students need additional instructions, so my hands wait quietly on the keys as he gives them further directions: "Fifth Position! AND!" The word "And" is accented and is my cue to start the music again. Throughout every class, along with observing the meter and tempo he demonstrates the exercises in, my ears stay alert for "Maestro" or "AND!" 

But one day, he slipped.

"An adagio, please, Misty," he addressed me.

The casual request caught me off guard, although his formal communication never bothered me. But in a setting where I feel I operate pretty mechanically and was not sure the instructor or students even knew my name, I was reminded of the contrast between
being acknowledged and being overlooked,
being viewed as a person rather than a machine,
as an individual instead of just another number in a crowded room.
I felt the encouragement of being recognized instead of unnoticed.

I sensed the human longing God planted in each of us to be known by name:

To the weeping woman at the door of the vacant tomb, 
Jesus spoke her name--"Mary."
To the hemorrhaging woman trying desperately 
to reach even the edge of his clothing, 
Jesus spoke the familial title--"Daughter,"
And to the paralyzed man 
lying helplessly on a mat--"Son."
To Simon, Jesus nicknamed "Peter," 
the rock to build His church.

Calling us by name or an affectionate title,
God includes us by first singling us out,
showing that He recognizes each of us as an individual,
not just one of the masses.
He knows us.
And as He directly calls on each one of us, He invites us to know Him,
not as a distant, unknown God,
but one we know personally--
by name.

Isaiah 43:1

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine."