my name

If I were to be a superhero, my power would be invisibility--not because I would choose to be invisible; it is what I default to, like a computer going back to its original settings. It is the lie I tell myself sometimes in order to deal with life.

Like the small child in full view who covers her eyes saying, "You can't see me," I am seen.

I decided to go to a women's conference by myself. Not looking for any more than the chance to say hello to the speaker whom I had not seen in years, I decided it would be easier to just show up, and try my best to fade into the crowd of women who gathered in a small church with tissue boxes at the end of every other row.

Almost immediately a woman, probably not far from my mother's age, approached and asked if she could join me. I was not sure if she was a plant from the church urged to welcome in the strays or if she was looking for companionship herself. Shortly thereafter some women I used to go to church with walked in and I chose to reach out, literally, grabbing the sleeve of the one closest, in order to reunite with them. Joining me, I became part of a group, yet in many ways remained alone.

I came expecting nothing. A veteran at these sorts of gatherings, I knew the ways things work.

First we would sing praise songs which I have not kept up with since my musical tastes have expanded to include a wider repertoire, and yet the nature of these sorts of songs are such that anyone with any kind of musical ability can join in. They are predictable and repetitious in their simple beauty.

There would be introductions and welcoming statements. I would wonder if I would see others whom I knew.

The talk given by the speaker would be brilliant as she is not only a gifted actor but a woman who has sought the Lord and has found Him. Her pronunciation of words would rival the most seasoned newscaster; her stage presence: mesmerizing. If ever there was an ideal woman to answer this sort of call in her life--it would be her.

Authenticity was the theme I would realize as I comforted myself with the false notion that what that meant for me was to be invisible. No one would be harmed by this subtle choice, the script in my head continued. It is ok, I told myself. I am fine.

Before I would return the next day for more singing and a moving dramatic presentation; before I would hear more of this woman's personal trials and triumphs in life; before another complete stranger would reach out to me in the brief friendship a women's conference affords; something I never expected happened.

As I sat in my invisible space prepared for anything, the speaker looked out into the faces of women eager to learn from her, seeing those whom she had known during her formative years; women from a previous church; women she hoped would receive her message and at the end go forward to choose a name written on a card that would more authentically identify them than the names we make up for ourselves out of our insecurity, pain, and self-protection; she would gently lift my invisibility cloak replacing it with the acknowledgement of my existence, a precursor to the name, "Healed" I would stumble upon when I went up to the altar the next day, and before everyone there, would say, "Thank you for coming . . . Mary Ellen."