Marked with Grace

My middle name is Charissa.

It’s an uncommon name, a bit on the strange side. I’m not named after anyone, it is not a family name. In fact, I’m not sure how my parents finally chose that particular name.

He tells me it was Him.

“I’ve marked you with Grace,” He whispers to my heart and I fall to my knees.

The name means Grace and from my high school Greek class, I know that charis is indeed grace and that no one is trying to invent something fancy out of nothing or that I am grasping at straws, trying to hope in something that is man-made. A pasted smile on the Jack-O-Lantern.

No. It is real. He has marked me with grace and that is who I am.

Yet grace is not common. As with the order of my names, grace is secondary. My first name, the one I go by, means “Mistress of the house.” I have been that in my life. In charge. In control. The mistress has dominated.

Grace has been the shadow. Most do not know me by my middle name. It’s a shame.

It is time for my grace mark to be the prominent distinguishing factor about me. It is time for the middle to become the first. It is time that it be more than a fleeting mention that is quickly forgotten.

It must become the main identifying factor about me. It must rise to the forefront.

It must become the new me.

Let me introduce myself. I’m Charissa. Grace.