I have different names for my people.

Kathryn is "Madama." She played our Countess when I was Cherubino, and in the show her title was "Madama." It stuck.

Taylor is "Opera Bae." Because we watch operas together and sass the world.

Chaz will call me all manner of names because he throws more shade than any person I know.

There is power in naming things.

God gave Adam power to name the animals.

Names are identity. They convey relationships between individuals. Shared experiences. What you call someone has power.

I call Paige, the little sister I never had, "honey girl." Or "darling love."

If I'm referring to someone with contempt, I call them "homegirl."

People call me all manner of things.

Kathryn -- Madama -- calls me Sarbinetta, transforming my name into that of a character I hope to play someday. This nickname reflects the bent of my own individual voice. During Figaro, she and George called me Sarabino, for obvious reasons.

Paige calls me "love."

When some of my close friends are pretending to lecture me, they call me by my full name: first, middle, and last.

I have a group of friends that has nicknamed me Tigger because I'm often bouncing off the walls.

Today, though.

Today someone called me "Brave One."

And a breath of wind stirred my hair.

Identity was spoken into me.

Brave One.

That's me.

Magic does exist, y'all.

Magic ignites in your soul to the tune of fairy dust and fire when identity is spoken into you. Over you.

The breath of God lights a flame inside your soul, as if it were holy oxygen.

He tells you who you are.

He created you, after all. He knows you.

He tells you you are brave. He tells you that you are loved and adored beyond anything you could imagine.

He tells you you are His.

Royalty. Leaders. Safe. Chosen. Redeemed.

And yes, even brave.

Do we believe it?

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