In the early 1960’s at the height of the Cold War, grocery stores looked a lot different than they do today, particularly in the produce section. There weren’t the variety of fruits and vegetables to choose from and it may have been a little boring by today’s standards. At the time produce importers had the task of bringing in new and exciting fruits and vegetables from all the corners of the earth, including the Chinese Gooseberry.
This brown, fuzzy fruit native to China was thought to have a flavor similar to a Gooseberry, which I imagine Americans were more familiar with at the time, and was sometimes described as having the appearance of horse droppings. With the American Cold War efforts being fueled by an anti Communist propaganda, the name Chinese Gooseberry was a marketing nightmare. While produce importers couldn’t do anything to change the look of the fruit, they could do something about the name. After a few different suggestions (including Mellonettes) they landed on the name we all know today Kiwifruit or Kiwi, after the New Zealand farmers who grew the crop.
It’s funny how a simple name change can do so much for something’s identity. This innocuous brown fuzzy fruit went from completely unmarketable to a summer time fruit salad staple. Now I didn’t change my name for marketing purposes, but the change sure had a lot to do with my identity. The names we call ourselves are a huge reflection on how we see ourselves. I’ve had friends go from Andy to Andrew or from Liz to Elizabeth as they step into who they are as leaders and let go of their childish ways. Similarly I have friends with names reserved for those closest to them. Another friend Andrew reserves the name Drew for close family and friends. His name not only reflects the identity that he has within those relationships, it’s also a symbol of the intimacy within those relationships.
The concept of a name change isn’t something new. In scripture we see God change Abram’s name to Abraham, Sarai to Sarah, Jacob to Israel. Simon became Peter, and Saul became Paul; the list goes on. God is saying: you were that, now you’ve become this, you saw yourself that way but I’ve always seen you this way, that was who you were apart from me, this is who you are in me. So who are you? Who am I? What do our names mean? What identity do they speak over us?
In 2011 I got a call from my Grandfather, Elton. He had been fighting prostate cancer for a number of years and had just received the news that his condition had taken a turn for the worse. The doctors had informed him that he was expected to slip into a coma within days. He was calling to say goodbye. I wasn’t ready. We spent a short time on the phone telling each other how much we loved each other and how much we meant to each other. The time came to hang up the phone and I still couldn’t say goodbye. Instead, I gave him an “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hopped on the first flight I could find to Florida and the next day, met up with my mom and some of my aunts and uncles who had come to be with their father. This time together was nothing but a blessing.
On the flight down I didn’t know what to expect. I ran through all the scenarios preparing myself for the worst. I had never had to let go of someone who meant so much to me. What if I’m too late? What if he’s already slipped away? When I arrived at the hospital I found my grandfather full of life with the light in his eyes shining bright as ever. He was in his hospital bed cracking jokes and making plans to order pizza for all of his visitors. He was mentally sharp, pain free and running on pure adrenaline because so many of his children had come to see him. God had given us a gift. I spent the next few days visiting with my grandfather. Hearing stories from when my aunts and uncles were kids, sitting quietly in the corner as friends from church came to visit him and pray with him.
At one point my uncle Tom recounted how my Grandpa had come to his rescue. As a child, Tom had been playing in the back alley when some neighborhood bullies started throwing rocks at him. In swooped his Dad. I’m imagining my Grandpa twirling around in a phone booth, emerging with a cape and tights ready to ward off the enemies. You see, Elton didn’t just come in defense, he went on the attack. This typically reserved, stoic Dutchman grabbed a shovel and started heaving scoops of dirt at the bullies as they ran with their tails between their legs. We all laughed as Tom finished his story, Elton chuckling with a range of pride and embarrassment that he had lost his cool on some snot nosed middle-schoolers. One of my aunts leaned over and quietly told me “He would have thrown dirt for you too.”
I listened as he processed his own mortality, the anxiety he had about letting go of this life and entering into eternity. At one point he shared how he was comforted by an Angel in the night, an ethereal heavenly light had entered his room to let him know that everything was okay, but he wasn’t worried about himself.
His life wasn’t about him. He wasn’t ready to stop caring for the people around him, his wife, his children, his flock. Elton was a shepherd, a pastor. He had dedicated his life to others, reversing oppression however he could through sacrificial love. He was passionate about Jesus, demonstrating Christ’s character wherever he saw an opportunity. He was a man of faith, leading a congregation for many years, counseling other believers, continually pointing them towards the Father. In his twilight years, he continued his work building the kingdom of heaven, ministering to inmates, staying on staff at his church to care for the elderly and caring for his beloved wife who was suffering from dementia.
After a few days of visiting, Grandpa’s light began to fade. He grew tired, weaker, yet still pain free. He began to drift. His naps became longer, meals were left untouched, he began to let go. It’s at this point that he asked for some one-on-one time with each of us. I remember taking a deep breath before I entered the room, tears already welling up in my eyes. It was time. We sat together, the moments lingering yet never long enough. He held my hand and told me he was proud of me. I told him how much he meant to me and how precious he was to me. I love you wasn’t enough. Somehow those words, though spoken, couldn’t communicate the depth of what we were trying to communicate. After an awkward pause he said, “Caleb, you know I’ve always thought of you as more of a son than a grandson. If you wanted to, you could change your last name to Piersma.” My answer was yes. We hugged and said goodbye. The next day I flew back to Michigan and a few days later Elton passed away.
My dad wasn’t really in the picture much growing up, but I was blessed to have an incredible father figure. From the day my mother told her father she was pregnant, he was all in. My Grandpa and I were best friends. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of hanging out with him. I was his and he was mine. Every summer when school let out he would find a project we could do together, building porches and fences, planting gardens and fixing up the house. Sure, things needed to get done but he saw them as opportunities for us to spend time together. Opportunities for him to pour into me and shape me into the man I am today.
It took me close to a decade to change my name. Over the years I made a lot of excuses. I wasn’t dating anyone seriously or planning to get married and didn’t have any children on the horizon so it wasn’t affecting anyone else. It could wait. If I’m honest, I wasn’t ready to step into my new identity, the identity that I had always had but wasn’t yet ready to embrace. My old name represented who I thought I was, my new name represented who I truly am. I saw myself as lacking worth, neglected by the dad that I had longed to have a relationship. Grandpa saw me as I am : a son.
The name Piersma originates from the name Peter, Petros, Rock, Rock-Man, Man of Stone. It’s foundational, it’s stable, it’s strong. It’s who I have always been and it’s who I’ve become. The name Piersma not only represents my genetic heritage, it also represents my genealogy of faith.
At some point, way way back, Someone, some Piersma, dedicated their life to the Lord, and I have been blessed with that foundation to build upon. It’s the legacy I carry, the legacy I am cultivating and the legacy I will leave to future generations. My name change wasn’t just about honoring my father figure. My name change is about who I am, my identity. My name change wasn’t about running from who I was, it’s about owning who I’ve always been.
