The Naming

The Indian night hung heavy with incense and expectation. Ten hours in a car with questionable air conditioning had left us road-weary, our bodies aching and our eyelids heavy. We had expected to arrive by mid-afternoon. The clock now read 10 p.m.

Surely, I thought, the congregation would have gone home hours ago. Who would wait eight hours for speakers they’d never met from a country they’d never seen?

But as we stepped from the car into the darkness, we heard it. Unmistakable. Undeniable. The sound of heaven touching earth.

Worship.

For eight hours, they had stood on that rooftop, singing praises to a God who hears, sees, and knows. They had not grown weary of waiting; they had simply filled the waiting with wonder.

I looked at my wife Robin, both of us humbled by such devotion. What offerings could we possibly bring worthy of such faith?

Names Written Before Time

After I preached and we began to pray for the people who had waited so patiently for our arrival, a woman approached us with two small children. One looked about three, the other perhaps five or six. Their eyes held the curious blend of timidity and wonder that seems universal in children across all cultures and continents.

“My children have no names,” she said simply.

I blinked, certain I had misunderstood.

“Someone spoke over me at their birth,” she continued. “They said that a couple would come here from the United States, and that couple would name my children.”

Have you ever felt the weight of a divine appointment? Not the comfortable kind where God asks you to do something squarely within your capabilities, but the kind that leaves you feeling like Moses before the burning bush—utterly unqualified and slightly terrified?

How does one name another’s children?

There in that makeshift sanctuary, beneath stars that suddenly seemed to hang too close and too bright, I did the only thing I knew to do. I prayed. Not for her. Not for the children. But for us.

Lord God, how would you have us name these children?

The Boy Without a Name

I took the boy in my arms first. He was small for his age, with eyes like deep wells that seemed to hold questions I couldn’t answer. I held him close, this child who had lived years without the anchor of a name, and I waited.

Many of us spend our lives accumulating titles and labels, adding letters after our signatures and credentials to our introductions. But this child had been waiting for something more foundational—the simple dignity of being called by name.

In that moment, I thought of another young man who had stood firm in a foreign land. Who had purposed in his heart not to defile himself with the king’s food and wine. Who had remained faithful when everything familiar had been stripped away.

“Daniel,” I said, looking at his mother. “His name is Daniel.”

Relief and joy spread across her face. “Daniel,” she repeated. “That’s a good name.”

“Yes,” I said, “and here is why: because Daniel purposed in his heart that he would not defile himself with the meat and wine. My prayer for your child, your son, is that he will live upright before the Lord all the days of his life, and that he will not defile himself with the trinkets of this world, but that he will love Jesus with all his heart, soul, mind, and body and will serve the Lord all the days of his life.”

The weight of prophecy hung in the air. Not the prophetic words I spoke over this newly-named Daniel, but the prophecy that had brought us here—strangers from across the world, arriving precisely where we needed to be, despite delays and detours, to fulfill a word spoken years before.

The Girl Who Would Become a Rose

Robin took the little girl next, this child who had waited perhaps five or six years to be called by name. My wife held her with the tender reverence one might hold a bird that has momentarily landed in your open palm—a mixture of wonder and responsibility.

After a moment, Robin looked up. “I am going to name her Rose,” she said, her voice steady with certainty. “She will have a sweet fragrance that is undeniable, and the beauty of her life will match the beauty of the rose.”

I watched the mother’s face as she received this second gift, this second naming. Tears streamed down her cheeks—not the quiet, polite tears of momentary emotion, but the soul-deep weeping that comes when years of waiting finally end.

We embraced this mother whose name we didn’t know, from a town whose location I couldn’t pinpoint on a map. We cried with her, prayed with her, and left that place transformed by the holiness of what had unfolded.

Known By Name

Years have passed since that night on the rooftop in India. I don’t know which town we were in. I don’t know the family’s dynamics or even the names of the parents. But I do know that somewhere in India, there is a Daniel and a Rose who were named according to a divine appointment that defied logistics, geography, and probability.

I think of them often—Daniel who would purpose his heart toward God, and Rose whose life would carry the beauty and fragrance of something heaven-planted. I wonder who they’re becoming, what paths they’re walking, how God is fulfilling the prophecies attached to their naming.

And I’m reminded of an eternal truth that brings both comfort and wonder: our God is a naming God.

In Isaiah 43:1, He says, “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.”

In Genesis 32, He gives Jacob a new name—Israel—that would define not just a man but a nation.

In Revelation 2:17, He promises believers “a white stone, with a new name written on the stone that no one knows except the one who receives it.”

Names matter to God. They’re not just labels for convenience; they’re declarations of identity, purpose, and belonging.

The Sacred Work of Naming

Perhaps this is why that night in India left such an indelible mark on my heart. For a brief moment, we participated in one of God’s most sacred works—the work of naming.

We do this naming work more often than we realize:

When we speak words of identity over our children, calling out the gold we see in them rather than the dross.

When we refuse to let others be defined by their failures, their diagnoses, or their worst moments.

When we remind fellow believers of who they are in Christ when they’ve forgotten.

When we speak truth over lies, hope over despair, future over past.

This is holy ground, this naming work. It’s partnering with God in the sacred business of identity-giving. It’s echoing the voice of the One who spoke your name before you ever drew breath.

Delays That Aren’t Delays

There’s another lesson woven through this story, subtle but significant. What appeared to be frustrating delays—traffic jams, unplanned stops, hours lost—were actually divine orchestration.

We were supposed to arrive at 2 p.m. We didn’t arrive until 10 p.m.

But what if we were never late at all? What if God’s timing is so perfect that even our delays fit precisely into His purposes?

This changes everything about how we view the interruptions and obstacles in our paths. The flight cancellation that feels like setback. The illness that delays your plans. The career that takes longer to launch than expected.

What if these aren’t detours from God’s plan but essential parts of it?

Paul wrote in Romans 8:28, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”

All things. Even traffic jams on Indian roads. Even the waiting seasons that seem pointless. Even the delays that frustrate our carefully constructed timelines.

The God Who Orchestrates Moments

I don’t know how long that mother had been waiting. Her children were years old—years without names. That’s a long time to hold onto a prophecy, to trust that strangers would come from across the world to fulfill a word spoken at your children’s births.

But she waited. And she brought her children to that rooftop meeting, believing that perhaps this night, these foreigners, would be the fulfillment of what had been promised.

Her faith staggers me. Would I have held on that long? Would I have brought my children year after year, meeting after meeting, still believing the word would come to pass?

Yet isn’t this the essence of faith? “The assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1).

She couldn’t see us coming. She didn’t know our names or what flight we’d arrive on or what we looked like. But she believed we would come, because God had said so.

And we did.

Not because we were special or particularly spiritual, but because we were willing to say yes to an invitation, to board a plane to a country halfway around the world, to endure a ten-hour car ride to a destination we couldn’t pronounce.

Sometimes being part of God’s miracles requires nothing more than simple obedience. Showing up. Being available. Saying yes when it would be easier to say no.

Daniel and Rose

I still think about them—Daniel and Rose. I wonder if they know the story of their naming. I wonder if they’ve grown into the prophecies spoken over them that night. I wonder if they realize they are living proof that God orchestrates moments across time and space to fulfill His purposes.

Somewhere in India, there walks a young man named Daniel. Does he know that his name carries the weight of holy defiance, of standing firm when the world offers compromise? Does he know that strangers from America held him and prayed that he would purpose his heart toward God?

Somewhere in India, there walks a young woman named Rose. Does she know that her name speaks of beauty and fragrance, of a life that brings joy to those around her? Does she know that her naming was the fulfillment of a prophecy that defied logic and geography?

I may never know. But God knows. He sees Daniel. He sees Rose. He continues to write their stories just as He continues to write yours and mine.

And perhaps that’s the greatest comfort of all—to know that the God who orchestrated a meeting on an Indian rooftop, who fulfilled a prophecy about naming, who works even through traffic jams and detours—that God is orchestrating your life too.

He knows your name. He called you before you were born. And He is bringing to pass every promise He has spoken over you, in His perfect timing.

Even when the journey takes longer than expected. Even when you feel forgotten or overlooked. Even when you’ve been waiting years for a word to be fulfilled.

He is faithful. And like Daniel and Rose, your naming—your true identity and purpose—is safe in His hands.