Sometimes I wrestle. Back flat on mat. Shoulders pressing in. Breath straining to find its way into my lungs. Searching. The heaviness mounts upon me and every muscle of my body tenses and struggles to not give up. To not tap out. The focus in my eyes and tension in my fingers cry out, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” I will not. I will not.
And then it comes… As gently as the lingering sweetness of a woman’s perfume who has just passed by…
The new name.
My daughters call it out carelessly with their vicarious laughter. Filling and flooding the air from wall to wall with the fragrance of freedom. Ricocheting and bouncing and splattering. Ever so softly, they penetrate my lungs. Chest rising and falling as I breathe in the victorious sound.
And then, the dad that loves those girls, he draws them in. He clutches their joy in the folds of his arms. The dad kisses those girls on the tops of their heads. Light and smooth. Dark and fuzzy. His lips touch. Our eyes tenderly catch each other through the laughter and the smile he casts in my direction speaks that name. That new name.
Then, me and those girls and the dad that loves, gather round the table of mango wood. We gather round the savory aromas drawing us in closer. Bellies and mouths anticipating the nourishment that awaits. We thank and we bless. And in one bite, I take that name into me. Filling my mouth and filling me up.
Muscles relent and relax. My breath goes deep. The blessing wraps around me. Found. It doesn’t give up. It doesn’t let go. And I realize I wasn’t wrestling it. It was wrestling me.
A new name.
Spoken in laughter and smiles and satisfying aromas. Gripping me ever so tightly in the gentlest of whispers. Nearness. Presence.
And I let go.