The camp is mixed. Some say he's crazy, most say he's doing an act in order to get discharged from the Army.
One person in camp believes him. Radar O'Reilly.
It's time for the man's release. Radar walks out to the jeep where the man sits. "Excuse me, Jesus, sir. Could you bless my friend?"
"Yes," the man replies.
And Radar pulls his Teddy Bear from behind his back. Jesus blesses the bear.
"Excuse me, Jesus, sir. Could you bless me?"
"Yes, Radar."
Radar steps back in deference. "Thank you. And my name. It's not Radar, sir. It's Walter."

Bless me.
What is Radar asking for? Many say that to "be blessed" is to be granted God's favor and protection. (And just for the record, this is not a game rigged in the favor of people with more faith or favor. Blessing plays no favorites.) Other definitions include the bringing of welcome pleasure or relief. Another, to be consecrated or made holy.
Regardless of the definition, there is good news in all of this.  We live in a world where we are bombarded--daily--by the need to achieve, or pursue; where we are rewarded by having more, or by being "somebody."
But here's the deal: To be blessed, is to know that place of no striving.
To be blessed, is to know that place of rest.
To be blessed, is to know that I am loved by a gracious Creator, and that I can own and celebrate my identity--this identity--knowing that it, and it alone, is enough.

Extraordinarily, blessing begins quite simply... with the affirmation of my name.

There is a similar story in the Gospel of John. Mary is looking for Jesus. He's not where he is supposed to be (in the grave). She is weeping. She's lost what she needed for stability.
She sees a man (she assumes is the gardener), and asks, "Please tell me where you've put him."
And Jesus (the man Mary believes to be the gardener) says only one word, "Mary."And in that one word, her name, is the blessing.   

Just Terry.

This reminds me of a story I told a few weeks ago. It still stays with me, and resonates. About a family who went out to a restaurant for dinner. When the waitress arrives, the parent give their orders. Immediately, the five-year-old daughter pipes up with her own: "I'll have a hot dog, french fries, and a Coke." "Oh no you won't," interjects the dad and turns to the waitress he says, "She'll have meat loaf, mashed potatoes, milk." Looking at the child with a smile, the waitress says, "So, hon, what do want on that hot dog?" When she leaves, the family sits stunned and silent. A few moments later the little girl, eyes shining, says, "She thinks I'm real."  

Yes.

That is what resonates. Someone thinks--believes, affirms-- that I'm real.

We all know what it's like to not be seen. Or to be missed. Or misunderstood. Or marginalized. To not be real. (And we tend to exaggerate it all by internalizing the tapes, playing them, Lord knows why, in the end buying whatever rhetoric and fabrication they are selling.)

Someone thinks I'm real. It's not my accomplishments or my accouterments or my masks or my roles or my achievements. To be blessed is to know that in that moment, I can just BE.

Mary.
Walter.
Terry.

I had such a moment today. After a long week on the east coast, I spent St. Paddy's Day working in my garden. Yes, a Guinness awaited me at the end of my day. I filled the bird feeders. And waited to see if the pair of Mallards--who have adopted our pond each spring--would return. There are those lucky days, when the sun illumines the moss on the rocks in the stream, and the daffodils glow faithful and sanguine around the Cedar tree, and the candied scent of Sarcococca transports you back to a high school dance when the best-looking girl in town really did want to drape her arms around your neck during all the slow numbers. Yes. There are those lucky days when public opinion means something only to pollsters and politicians, when you realize that the elastic jurisdiction of what they think cannot find you here in this little corner of the globe, and you raise your face to the stars and shout to no one in particular "if this isn't nice, what is?" 

And all my striving ceased. And I knew. I am blessed indeed.