As a boy, I didn’t much care for my middle name. It’s “Fredrick.” I always thought it a bit stuffy. I like it now because it’s also my Dad’s middle name and was the first name of Papa Moore, my grandfather.
When the Book of Life is opened and both small and great stand before the throne, and the names of the redeemed are read one by one—it won’t matter to me if the Lord should call me by my middle name. Whether He calls me by my last name the way teachers did in school, makes me no difference. If He should call me “J” the way my sisters do or my close friends will be of no matter. If He should point into the crowd and say to me, “Hey you, get in here!” That too, would be just fine. I just know one thing—I want my name written there.
Don’t you know that the audience on that occasion will stand with rapt attention? There will be no stirring in the crowd. No one will yawn. No one will tire of the proceedings. Many names will be read that will be unfamiliar to us. Some that we couldn’t pronounce. Others will be familiar. But He will know them all, and will pronounce them perfectly. And we will suppose that our eyes had been made just to view that scene, and our ears made just to hear that voice, and our hearts made just to adore Him who sits on the throne and who knows our name.