herald *not* Harold
Riley laughs like the captive of a tickling phantom, doubled over, hilarious joy bubbling over in snickering and snorting and giggling so hard her cheeks flush pink and she gasps for breath.
I told her she was our herald, but the way she’s laughing, I know she heard Harold, because nothing’s funnier to Riley than calling someone by a different name. Remembering people is her superpower; it comes so naturally for her to remember names and faces (for years and years and years beyond our own memories for such things), that deliberately flubbing a name comes off as pure silliness. It’s how we all became Jones–all the people in her family and other close friends and extended family who have given her permission, because her grandma picked up on the way misnaming strikes her funny bone and started the joke, and it still makes Riley laugh. Random chortles replace sighs in the middle of our extraordinary ordinary.
“Harold, oh, that’s funny,” she says, gulping for air, the word funny crumbling again into laughter.
I grin, gently trying to explain, because the way Riley announces us sometimes makes us feel like dignitaries and even more often makes us feel like we’re going-to-lose-our-minds. We can sometimes relate to the apostle Paul when that spirit-possessed girl followed him and his traveling companions up and down the dusty streets shouting, “These men are servants of the Most High God (Acts 16:16-18),” when even though it was true, Paul just couldn’t.
“It looks like it’s Mom Jones,” she says, every single time my feet hit the middle of the stairs, or “There goes Dad Jones, again,” when she herself enters the living room and spots Kevin sitting on the sofa, even though he was sitting there when she left the room. It’s always, “Here comes Adam Jones again,” or in the morning, when Zoe drags down the stairs in baggy pajamas, half asleep, rubbing her eyes, Riley looks up and says, “Here comes Z, there she is,” like paparazzi awaiting a diva sighting.
“You know, Jesus had a herald,” I say.
She looks up at me. “Mmmhmm, I’m a Harold all right,” she says, lets go of trying to master her face, dissolves again into whoops. I can’t decide, but I think what she heard was Jesus has me, now that I’ve said she’s Harold, because the way she answers, it’s like I just said the most obvious thing in the world. She belongs to Jesus; she seems to understand that better than most.
I press on, absurdly. “Because Jesus is a king. Heralds announce important people. You’re like that, except, of course, that you announce us. All the time.” Riley will not acknowledge the distinction. To her, every single human alive bears value and significance enough to warrant attention; she doesn’t play favorites. Given opportunity, she’d continually herald the image of God in all of us, and I don’t know, maybe we’d all start to receive the truth about who we are and how much we matter.
Winding down, because she has to breathe, Riley nods in agreement. “You’re right, I do love to announce you guys,” she chirps, sing-song happy. “I’m an announcer-girl alright.” It’s true: proclamations do rank high on her list of favorites. Besides announcing us, she draws our attention to news bulletins, to text messages from friends, and to the mail as well, even the junk mail that lands in the recycle bin, delivering all of these with a solid rock back on her heels and a perfunctory, “Ahem.” She’s a messenger, our home crier, sometimes even a kitchen-table prophet.
“Sometimes angels are heralds, you know, as in Hark, the Herald Angels Sing. Jesus’s herald was John the Baptist.”
She guffaws, gripping her side with one hand, and I do a mental translation into Riley-ese: Sometimes angels are Harolds, you know, as in Hark, the Harold Angels Sing. Jesus’s Harold was John the Baptist.
I can’t help it; I giggle. I consider writing down the two words to show her the difference, but I don’t think it will actually change how she hears what I say, so I try to clarify:
“His name wasn’t Harold. His name was John. But he was a herald.” Riley drops to her knees, gasping with giggles, and I realize I’m only making this worse. I’ve just accidentally convinced her that Jesus shares her sense of humor and also purposely calls certain people he loves by another name, but no sooner have I thought this than I think maybe He actually does. Couldn’t there have been a grin on Jesus’s face when Jesus started calling Simon Rock? And every time she calls me Mom Jones, isn’t it superabundant grace, because doesn’t it remind me that she loves me? Sometimes I remember that I can stop keeping up with the Joneses because I am a Jones in her eyes. I say this out loud. It’s a joke. And it isn’t.
That wide grin, it splits my tired face, and now I’m laughing too. Suddenly I’m channeling George Bailey when he discovers his guardian angel is an old man named Clarence who hasn’t earned his wings, because of course mine is a beautiful, roundly warm, toe-headed autistic young woman who now thinks she’s nicknamed Harold. Harold Riley Jones. And she loves it.
