A few days ago, a web admin error forced me to rename my site, in order to register it again. While I was working through the process, my Pandora started playing Zippiddy-do-da. I couldn’t help laughing because my friend Emily had once sung it to me as “Snippiddy-do-da,” so I decided to use that as my new handle—who knew that choosing my own name could lead to such self-revelation!
“Snippiddy-do-da” is far from the worst thing that has been done to my name. Nippy, Snippy, Nip-Nip, Lil Nips, Nippertus Minimus/Maximus, and my personal favorite, Snipperdoodle… Yeah, thanks for that one, Rachel. My new boss, however, loved my name before she even met me, said it had a nice ring to it.
One of the reasons that I would probably never get married is because a lot of my friends wouldn’t know what to call me. Most of the time, I’m just Nippert—I actually wonder if some of them even know my first name. Not that it matters much, because what’s in a name? I would still smell as sweet no matter what you call me.
Go ahead, play around with my name. You can never really touch me. All of who I am is contained in my name, but I am not my name. I am so much more than a bunch of letters: I am infinite. My eternal self could never be confined to any human construction. The beauty of the soul is in its inherent identity with the deity of the creator.
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