What do we call him? Part 1
Ever since I was a couple days old, the question has been asked, "What do we call him?"  I was the first baby boy in our family.  Because of that, I inherited my given name Emory Luther Reeves, Jr.  You can call me any of those if you like--I might not answer to "Junior" unless you're my dad.

Well, there in good ol' Roper Hospital in Charleston, a friend asked my mother, "What will you call him?"  I guess the prevailing logic was that should Momma need assistance and yell, "Emory!" that neither my dad or I would come running believing she meant the other one.  A few nicknames were batted about.  I was this close to being Em.  Finally the friend suggested, "Call him Chip."

In 1969, "Chip" was the proper nickname to give a youngster in order say a little more about the boy's parents relationship to "the man".  To put this in perspective, my wife's middle name is Lalena (la-lay-nya), which is the title of a Deep Purple song, ya dig?

I have had fun all my life being Chip.  The good thing about having the nickname is that I have enjoyed getting to define who Chip is without a lot of worry about being Emory.  Of course, as a teenager, he would always remind me, "Remember whose son you are."  Wasn't hard to forget.  It's on my driver's license and Social Security card.

There was that short period of time when I contemplated a name change.  I had reached one of those rites of passage moments in life and I felt that as a more mature individual I wanted to go by a name that would welcome people to take me more seriously.  "Call me Emory," I requested--the day I graduated from kindergarten.

I probably don't have to tell you that "Chip" quite often finds too many prefixes and suffixes easily attached.  I don't mind.  There are listeners who don't hear and they call me Skip or Jim, and there are readers who don't look closely and they call me Chris.  I have devious plans for these folks.  I even hope for the opportunity to butcher their names over a loudspeaker one day.  "It's a pleasure to introduce you to Mr. Juh-hon Su-mitt-huh!"  Oh yeah, John Smith, you're on my list.

A Basket Case
In the summer of 2000 I spent 6 weeks on mission in Moldova.  There are a lot of stories I can tell about that trip, but one of them actually happened today.

One of the presents I brought back for my wife was a bread basket.  It was one of those rare occasions when a husband actually gets ir right.  Trisha loved the basket and we used it at many meals, especially when we would have company over.  Then, I could tell mission trip stories, and we could both talk about being apart for 6 weeks and how good it is to be together.  Anyways, the bread basket became one of those go-to symbols of hospitality in our home.

A few years ago, we were about to have friends over for lunch and Trisha asked, "Where's The Basket?"  We own plenty of baskets, but I knew which one she was talking about. We searched all over the house and couldn't find it.  We gave up, resigning that this basket had been lost in transit over a few years.  It was somewhere between Maryland, Savannah, Atlanta and Allendale, SC.

This week, Trisha and I are apart for a few days, while I start working at First Baptist Church of Evans, GA, and she oversees packing and moving. We won't have lots of stories to tell, but there will be a few.  For instance, the refrigerator in the parsonage in Allendale died two nights ago.  Trisha woke up to puddles of water in the kitchen and the chore of throwing away the food in the refrigerator and freezer.  She let the church know about the broken appliance, and a repairman was dispatched.  He arrived on Wednesday and gave the bad news about the passing of the compressor.  I think a new refrigerator is in the works for the next pastor in Allendale--you're welcome, buddy!

Here's the story.  The repairman had to pull the refrigerator out from the wall to work on it.  Behind the refrigerator was a red cup and some magnetic letters perhaps belonging to the previous family.  Also back there, probably for our whole term in Allendale, was The Basket.  Poor thing was caked in dust.  It was lost, but now it's found, dare I say.

Moving and starting a new job comes with a fair amount of stress I hear.  Transition can be a word that scares people.  In the middle of some anxiety, are stories about lost treasure being found: God's consistency even when life is in flux, my wife's phone call with a joyful story to share, and even the basket we'll use again to welcome friends old and new.