I Am that I AmEbook PDF Download
By Jeremy Lopez
Price: $18.99
My name is Patrick, but if you grew up around my family, there's a good chance you wouldn't have known that. To my dad, I was usually Peaches. Sometimes I was Peachy, and occasionally just Peach. I'm still not entirely sure where the nickname came from. I've heard it was because I had a lot of peach fuzz when I was a little boy, and that explanation seems reasonable enough. Like most family stories, though, the details have become less important than the tradition itself. Dad started calling me Peaches when I was very young, and over time the variations came naturally. Even today, some family members and lifelong friends still call me Peaches, Peachy, or Peach, and every time they do, it brings a smile to my face.
Now, let's be honest. There probably aren't many grown men hoping their nickname is Peaches. It's not exactly the kind of name that strikes fear into the hearts of your enemies. Nobody hears, "Look out...here comes Peaches," and immediately starts making better life decisions. But I've never wanted to trade it for something tougher because, to me, the nickname has never really been about the word itself. It's always been about the one who first spoke it.
As an adult, I visited my parents often. There was a rhythm to those visits that I never thought much about at the time. I'd open the front door, step inside, and before I even made it very far into the house, Dad would almost always call out from wherever he was, "Hey, Peachy!" Sometimes I hadn't even seen him yet. Somehow, he just knew it was me. It happened so consistently that I came to expect it. Looking back, I wish I had lingered in those moments a little longer because I never imagined there would come a day when I couldn’t walk into that house or hear those words.
It's amazing how ordinary moments become extraordinary in hindsight. At the time, it was just Dad saying hello. Today, it's one of the memories I treasure most because I can still hear his voice saying it. Other people have called me Peaches over the years, but no one has ever made the nickname sound quite the way he did. When Dad said it, it wasn't simply a nickname. It was recognition. It was affection. It was his way of saying, "You're home, and I'm glad you're here."
The older I've become, the more I've realized that a nickname says far more about the relationship than it does about the person wearing it. Almost anyone can know your legal name. Your employer knows it. The bank knows it. It's printed on your passport and your driver's license. A nickname, however, belongs to a much smaller circle. It usually isn't chosen because it sounds impressive. In fact, most nicknames make very little sense to anyone outside the family. They're born out of shared experiences, inside jokes, childhood stories, or moments that only the people closest to us understand. A nickname quietly says, "You belong here. You're known here."
That realization has made me think differently about how God relates to us. Throughout Scripture, names carry remarkable significance. Sometimes God calls people by name, as He did with Moses. Sometimes Jesus speaks a person's name, and everything changes, as when He called Zacchaeus down from the tree or when Mary Magdalene recognized the risen Christ the moment He simply said, "Mary." Other times, God gives someone an entirely new name because He is revealing something deeper about their identity. Abram becomes Abraham. Simon becomes Peter. Saul becomes Paul. In each case, the new name wasn't merely a different label. It reflected a deeper relationship and a greater purpose.
I don't think it's a coincidence that the Bible places so much emphasis on names because names communicate identity. But what has become even more meaningful to me is the realization that identity doesn't begin with the name itself. It begins with the One who speaks it. A nickname given in love reminds us that we are known before we are evaluated. We are welcomed before we have accomplished anything. We belong because of relationship, not because of performance.
The world, on the other hand, is constantly handing out labels. It calls us successful or unsuccessful, conservative or liberal, popular or forgotten, wealthy or poor. Those labels often become the lens through which people see us, but labels are not the same thing as names. Labels categorize us. Names personalize us. Labels reduce people to a characteristic or an opinion. Names remind us that we are individuals created in the image of God and worthy of being known.
Perhaps that's one of the quiet lessons hidden inside a simple childhood nickname. Every one of us longs to be known. Not admired from a distance but genuinely known. We want someone who remembers us before our titles, before our accomplishments, before life became complicated. We want a place where we don't have to prove ourselves because we've already been welcomed. I think that's one of the reasons Jesus described Himself as the Good Shepherd whose sheep know His voice. It's the voice of someone who doesn't simply recognize a face in the crowd but knows each one personally.
Whenever I think about Dad calling out, "Hey, Peachy!" I realize now that what I miss isn't just hearing the nickname. I miss hearing it from him. The word itself was never the treasure. The relationship was. That's what made an ordinary nickname feel sacred.
Maybe that's also one of the most beautiful truths about our relationship with God. He doesn't know us because we've earned His attention. He knows us because we've always belonged to Him. Long before the world placed labels on us, long before we accumulated successes or failures, long before we had anything to offer, God knew our name. And I have a feeling that when our heavenly Father calls us, we hear something much deeper than a word.
We hear what every heart longs to hear: "Welcome home."
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