Teresa Miller

But now, thus says the LORD, your Creator, O Jacob,
And He who formed you, O Israel,
“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name; you are Mine!
Isaiah 43:1 (New American Standard Version)

“Teresa!” My plain English name, transformed into something mystical and beautiful by its Spanish pronunciation, was called with a sense of urgency and authority; without hesitation, I hurried toward the speaker with anticipation. I remember thinking that even if I had made some error and was going to the speaker in order to be reprimanded, it didn’t matter. I was compelled to respond to my name when it was spoken with such beauty and power.

As it turned out, the speaker was Gary Powell. He had something he was showing to a group, and he didn’t think I’d want to miss it. So, even though I was chatting distractedly and paying no attention to him, he made the effort to call out my name in order to include me. The “something” was a garden, planted on the new property of La Casa de mi Padre. The garden was divided into many small plots, each surrounded by cut bamboo. The sections were watered through irrigation, and the ground was yielding healthy green plants whose produce would help to nourish forty some precious growing bodies.

I did love seeing the garden, and I was glad that Gary had thought to include me. There was something powerful and emotional, however, about hearing and responding to my “new” name that stirred my heart in such a way that it was almost painful. I felt my tears at the very surface and knew that God was giving me the gift of a very vivid picture of His relationship with me.

When I settled into my comfortable hotel room that evening, I had some time to myself and pulled out the Bible which had accompanied me on the trip. It was a parallel Spanish and English version, and there were study notes, albeit in Spanish, in the back of the book. I found the word nombre, and struggled to read the explanation. I was able to translate well enough to understand that the person who calls another by name (names him or her), knows that person intimately and has authority over that individual.

Tears started to stream down my face as I thought of the triune God who has called me by name. He knows me intimately. He knows my desires. After all, he created me and planted those desires within me. When He calls my name, He calls with authority, urgency, and the pure desire to do good toward me and through me. If I resist His call, whether He calls to commend, exhort, or rebuke, I will miss out on the delights of duty in the midst of His holy and precious presence.

The Father called many of us to El Salvador this summer. He used my daughter, a veteran of La Casa trips, to call my name, and together, the three of us enjoyed a special communion that will bind us always. I met Hannah’s friends-for many of the children and teenagers at La Casa are no longer “the children,” but are, indeed, Hannah’s friends. And then I met the nineras and cocineras and lavanderas, the very special women who care for the children and their needs at My Father’s House. When God began to whisper my name, several years prior to this, my first trip, it was these unique women he had placed upon my heart. And so, as I encountered these dear ones, it was not with complete surprise that I acknowledged the intense longing to converse with them.

Armed with what my sweet friend Esthersita calls my “determination to communicate,” as well as one short year of Spanish study, I embraced every opportunity to “talk” with the ladies, aged 24 to grandmother, and with the teenaged girls and boys. We played charades, for the most part, and I am certain that I provided hilarious entertainment with my inaccurate and mangled present tense Spanish, but my heart swelled with joy as God allowed me to fulfill the desire of my heart to fellowship with these, His children, of a different language and culture. The women and teenagers welcomed me, with my clumsy language and my clumsy hands, into their world of kitchen and laundry and homework and play. More importantly, they welcomed me into their hearts, and I accepted their invitation with reckless abandon.

I looked on as the hearts of my mission trip friends were being equally captivated. There were those who braided hair, gently brushing and stroking and loving the girls whose striking black hair they attended. Another drew portraits, affirming the recipients with her carefully and tenderly made perceptions. Others communed by playing dominos (some for the first time) with the teenage boys or by working puzzles with the middle schoolers. Some sat adoringly alongside children as they colored pictures or made play dough renditions of pupusas, piñatas, and pies filled with exotic fruits. Some of our teenagers served their little friends as human jungle gyms while others played soccer in the sweltering sun or playfully pushed children in swings. Medical missionaries pulled teeth and listened to hearts, looked at ears, and tended to cuts and rashes. Loving arms cradled little babies, but they embraced teenagers, as well. Everywhere cameras flashed, capturing the incredible faces and moments that no one wanted to forget.

There were over 60 of us who made this summer’s journey by answering individual calls from our Father. We did not necessarily know to what we were being called, but we knew we had heard our names being spoken irresistibly by the One Who Knows Us Best. Somehow we knew it was into His presence that we were going to admire and fellowship in the delightful gardens He had planted. We were not disappointed.