The Weight of a The Weight of a Name

This morning I pause with Isaiah’s promise: “I have called you by name; you are mine.” In the stillness before presence-work begins, I feel the ache and intimacy of that declaration. God doesn’t address me as chaplain, companion, author, or builder—He calls me by name. Just Mark. Unadorned and fully seen.

In this vocation, names carry weight. I speak them in hospital rooms, on hospice thresholds, in quiet spaces where pain clings to the walls. Sometimes they’re the only thing left—a final tether between who someone was and who they still are to someone. I’ve held names that tremble with grief, whispered them when the body has forgotten, protected them when systems mislabel or erase.

Today, I want to return to the sacred act of naming—not as identification, but as invocation. I will speak a name and mean it. I will receive my own name as blessing, not burden.

And I’ll remember: being called by name means I am known. Not for my answers, not for my endurance—but for my essence.