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I finally found out who I am.

Maybe I always knew...I just hadn't seen it in black and white before.

I already had my message ready for the youth service in Oklahoma City...sort of...as much as I'm ever ready. Okay, I had a scrap of paper with a few notes. My message was going to be about Jonathan's crippled son, Mephibosheth.

And you think YOU have a funny name.

It could've been worse. In fact I could almost write a book about parents who name their kids unkind things. Example: Governor Hogg of Texas who named his daughters Ima and Ura. Example: My mother's friends in Salt Lake City growing up: Iona and Harry Legg. I was told (but I cannot prove) that the man who created the Lear Jet named his daughters Crystal and Shanda. I even knew a hippie kid in California growing up whose two brothers were named (I'm not making this up) WinterSpring, SummerFall and Sunshine Siddartha. The obvious nicknames being Winnie and Sunnie. I think criminal negligence charges would not be unreasonable so these kids could have free therapy for life.

I really like name books, and I think it's neat, especially for kids, to know that their name means something, and what it is. Unless of course their name means "Swampy bog" or something. I kind of like the Native American idea of naming kids after things they do or represent, like "Dances with Wolves." At this stage of my work I'd like to be called "wrestles with ostriches." But in fact I love my name and thank God my parents chose it for me: Gregory Robert. It means "Faithful Watchman", and I pray I will always live up to that name.

My last name is another matter. I don't care for being named after a piece of marsh bamboo, but believe me it could have been much much worse. My dad's real name was Foote. There are different stories as to why Pop changed it. Neither my grandma nor my step grandma liked my Pop much, so I'm not sure either is a reliable story. But one said that back in the forties they called police officers "flat foot" and Mother wouldn't put up with that if they were to marry so he changed it. The other is that mother refused to marry, have kids, and have people saying, "Why, here comes Mrs. Foote and all her little Feet!" Who knows, really. I'm just sooooo thankful he changed it regardless of why.

Names identify us, they differentiate us from others. They tell us we are unique. Biblical Hebrew names, especially, were full of meaning.

Which is why I love the story of Mephibosheth. His name meant "Dispeller of Shame."

The fact is he was an object of shame - at least to himself - to his family and friends. You see, Mephibosheth's father was David's lifelong friend - Jonathan. And his father's father was King Saul. Mephibosheth's dad was supposed to be king after his grampa died. Instead, his father Jonathan and his grampa Saul were both killed on the same day. While running from the coming battle, Mephibosheth's nurse accidentally dropped him and he became permanently "lame in his feet." (2 Samuel 4:4).

He was the Lame Prince.

I didn't make up that name. When I was in Oklahoma for the youth service, I sat in the pastor's office praying, asking God if He was sure I was supposed to talk about this story - when I saw a book the pastor had written lying on the table - "The Lame Prince." The story of Mephibosheth. I knew I had heard God right. I also was strangely filled with an understanding that I, too, am God's Lame Prince. I will explain that more in a moment.

Mephibosheth must have felt a thousand things growing up. He was an orphan. David had become King, a place his grampa had, that his father should have had, and eventually he himself. Instead he was probably in hiding for his life, because new kings tended to kill off all the remaining family members of the outgoing King.

He must have thought his name was a joke. "Dispeller of Shame." And here he was - lame, exiled, abandoned. Nothing BUT shame had been his life. Don't you think he was bitter? Angry? Wounded? I think he was. There David was, King - while he sat alone and shamed. The Lame Prince.

David was now King. All was at peace. All his enemies were subdued. He must have been thinking about Jonathan, his dearest friend. He must have ached to think of him gone. Once in a lifetime does a friendship like that happen. No one could ever replace Jonathan.

"Is there still anyone left of the house of Saul, that I may show him kindness for Jonathan's sake?", David asked. (2 Samuel 9:1) There was. His name was Mephibosheth. He was brought to David. What must he have thought? That this was it, the end? Had David brought him to finish the job? But instead of death, David said, "Don't be afraid son. I brought you here to give you back what your grandfather lost. I want you to live here. I want you to eat at my table all your life. I want to take care of you."

"What is your servant, that you should look upon such a dead dog as I?" Mephibosheth replied. He could not believe - lame and rejected as he had been all his life - that instead of death - he was asked to come and live in the King's House forever.

You bet I understand that story.

A little later in the story, Mephibosheth tells David, "You are like the angel of God."

You know, I wish we could really grasp all this. You and I were wounded, rejected, angry, bitter, lame sinners who knew somehow we were born for something but we didn't know what. And the King said, "I want them to come and live in My House." What wonderful, undeserving grace that would bring us to His very own House and give us His royal Name!

Mephibosheth, in the end, really WAS the "dispeller of shame." It happened because someone sought him out and brought him Home.

I have always  believed that the message of God's love was "for the one." I'm not into crowds. I want to find the one.

I went to church camp this summer, and it was my first time since 1974. It was at Mountain Aire, New Mexico. Doesn't that sound exotic, refreshing, doesn't it evoke wonderful thoughts of fresh breezes, waterfalls?

It was two trees and a mound of dirt. No river. Lots of dust. Mountain air?, yea, right!

Mine was close to the worst behaved troop at camp, perhaps in camp history. We got busted for breaking curfew the first night. Ritalin wouldn't have helped that gig. God knew who to pick to shepherd them though, me, who had quit boy scouts at twelve in a fit of rebellion.

The next day, the Fearless Leader of these "bunk rats" as they named themselves, got fired - from volunteer sausage serving. I didn't know you could get fired for a non-paying job, but I did. News spread fast: the next day a little boy looked at me sadly and said, "Mister, I'm sorry you got fired from sausages." It was pathetic, really. I'm not cut out to be an athletic camp leader, especially if I can't even hang on to a sausage job. Nevertheless, I knew I was at this camp for a reason. There were Mephibosheths here.

Two of my campers were brought to me with lots of instructions - mainly, with medical directions on how to make sure they got their asthma medicine. They were big kids. They wouldn't be playing any reindeer games, I assure you. And my heart was struck. No one was going to mess with these boys. No one was going to tease them or humiliate them on my watch --- I remembered too well both the long nights trying to breathe and the days I cried and begged not to go to school because I couldn't take the humiliation and teasing anymore. I learned these boys' names - all of them - but especially  these two. They both had an evident call of God on them.

Remember what I said earlier about the importance of names? Well, it's not just our given names that affect us but what others CALL us. Life and death is in the power of the tongue, and you can wound or heal with your words. So, so many kids remember the anguish of being called "stupid", "fat", "loser", "half-wit", and on it goes. And a lot of the kids I've loved and known got that from home as well as school. We may be lame of heart, mind, or body - but we stay lame of  spirit because we can't forget those awful words spoken by the proud and insensitive. They mold us into what we think of ourselves - what we become.

So besides making sure no one called these boys names, I did everything I could to bolster their hearts in God's way. I told them how great they were, how proud I was of them. One of them flawlessly sang worship in sign language with me during the night services - who would have known, based on outward appearance, that this big kid had such a profound gift, such an eloquent voice of hands and heart? And the other boy - I called him "Pastor David" every time I saw him, because he had the tender heart of a shepherd only the wounded healers have - and he WILL be a pastor. I just know. What an awesome moment at the last day when the speaker asked all the kids who felt God had called them to ministry to stand, to see "Pastor David" rise without hesitation to respond to that call. I expect to see him in a profound place of ministry someday. I pray he will remember --- not me, but that "someone" looked out for him and did not ridicule him but made him feel special --- someone who even called him "Pastor."

And it's not just the rejected and weak that need our kindness. There are PLENTY of Mephibosheths on honor rolls, who are well off, who are good looking and excel in sports and appear to have it all. I spoke with a preacher's kid that last afternoon. Nothing special; just taking an interest in his young life.

After the last service, I saw him sitting alone on top of a monkey bars near the commissary. I said something briefly to him going by, and then suddenly something caught my eye --- a single, solitary tear coming down his face. I stopped dead in my tracks, and asked him to come down and talk. Instead he came down and reached for my embrace and sobbed for the longest time. Through his tears all I heard was, "Thank you for being my friend." This was a hurting, limping Mephibosheth in a preacher's kid's body, just needing a friend.

Folks, I'm nothing special except to God and my friends. But I do know how to see kids on the inside. And I am always humbled when they accept the only gifts I can give: Jesus, and my faith in their lives and hearts and callings. Camp just reminded me: This is who I am. This is all I am.

And I am so because someone, so many years ago, was my King David. He was just a little guy in a big LTD that picked me up, and instead of seeing a scarred, angry, messed up, demonized mess of a kid, he saw --- a Prince. How? How could he, except he saw through Jesus' eyes? He kept on me, kept praying, kept calling, until I surrendered to Jesus and the King brought this Lame Prince into His own Home forever.

There were King Davids along the way, after I became a believer, who loved me, spent time with me and called me the names God wanted me to have, son, loved, called, special, and I remember them all: Dave Malkin, Doris, Ted, Mike and Rita, Claudette and Rosemary, Rick, I could go on for pages. Each elevated me out of my limping heart into a place of dignity and purpose. Next to Jesus, I owe them my heart.

And I have always asked, and longed, to be that to others.

You see, I still limp. The scars of my youth and childhood were deep and wide, both physically and emotionally. Some would chide me and say, "Don't confess that limp!" Listen, I know who I am. I am not deceiving myself. There are many things I will never know and can never be. And so, so many scars still sting from the corridors of my past. And I want it that way. Yes, God could take away even the slightest "limp." But I'm not sure I want that. I WANT those scars to be tender to the touch, so that Pastor Davids, and preacher's kids, and hurting children do not escape my sight but instead capture my heart and my prayers - because in my healing, I can still feel the pang of what it was like to be rejected, bitter, alone. I want those scars to be a bridge they can walk over to find the King's waiting arms and welcoming banquet set out for the royalty they are, if only they could see themselves as He sees...

I will never forget last year in a moment of self-doubt and discouragement, driving west to California across the desolate New Mexico highway and saying, "Jesus, was it worth it what You did for me? Have I given you anything at all with my life that made it worth it for You to die for me, has anything I have done even come close to thanking You for saving me?" The answer was unexpected and reduced me to sobs. "Son", He said gently, "Every one You have loved, You loved for Me."

Gregory Reid is the founder of YouthFire Ministries and has authored numerous books. He travels throughout the world fulfilling the Great Commission and resides in El Paso, TX.