DOWN HOME: A Marv (or Mary) by any other name …

Here’s the good news: An email arrived the other day, and the subject line told me, “Congratulations, you have been chosen.”

Me. Chosen. Ever since I can remember, I’ve loved the word “chosen.” When I was a child and all the kids on the street gathered to play baseball, the big boys picked the teams, and I always felt special when I was “chosen” early. Years later, when I was in college, I felt like the luckiest person on the planet because I was “chosen” by Joanna Jarchow to be her one and only. Much of my adult life, I’ve pondered the Bible and mused upon the meaning of being God’s “chosen” people. Yep, “chosen” is great.

My email went on to extrapolate the exact nature of my fortunate chosenness: I’m “being considered for inclusion with the National Association of Professional Women’s ‘Distinguished Women of 2010.’”

Consequently, my “profile”—presumably, my resumé or a brief description of my credentials, not my silhouette—will be “highlighted amongst the country’s most influential and accomplished women in over 200 industries and professions, a privilege shared by thousands of professional women throughout America each year!”

Of course, here’s the bad news: Look up and to your left. … That’s me over there. The bald one with the tortoise-shell glasses. Either I’m (a) not a woman, or I’m (b) “being considered for inclusion with the National Association of Hirsute Women’s ‘Hairiest-Faced Females of 2011.’”

If you answered (a) “not a woman,” you’re correct. I’ve never been a woman. And although I love and admire women and believe God made them equal with, and in many ways superior to, men, I neither wish nor hope to become a woman at any time in the near and/or distant future.

Actually, I’m not totally surprised this happened. Maybe I’m a wee-bit surprised by the “Distinguished Women” part. But I’m not altogether surprised by the fact people who don’t know me mistook me for a woman.

This happens when you’ve got a name like “Marv.” I love my name. I’m named for my dad, Marvin, whom I adore, and I’ve always gone by the shorter version. Plus, Marv is unusual. In fact, it’s so unusual that, in the unlikely event I become a pop star, I’ll use just one name: Marv.

But people tend to see what they expect to see. So, for years, I’ve received countless letters addressed, “Dear Mary.”

Actually, Mary Knox was my wonderful aunt. She was married to Uncle Garvin, and she was a bright light—hilarious, loving, generous, sweet, faithful and altogether magnificent. So, I’ve always grinned rather than groaned when people mis-gendered my name. They just reminded me of one of my all-time favorite people.

And I am grateful God knows and never forgets my name. Even if I’m not a distinguished woman.