Called Out
By Theresa Sponsky Demi
Dedicated to:
My mom, Carla Sponsky Wannett, and my sisters, Patty Miller and Christy Link, who always remind me of who I am and WHOSE I am when I forget. I couldn’t do this life without you
**** All stories involving me are true. At the start of each chapter that I have humanly tried to depict the scene in the scripture, I have given the Bible reference to find the story in the WORD. My interpretation is no substitute for the Word of God. I encourage you to read the scripture first always. My interpretation is based on the Word, research, prayer, and sometimes filling in the blanks with my imagination! Again, I would NEVER want to take away from the authenticity and authority of the Bible. Read the Word first! May you be blessed.
Theresa
Introduction- Who Are You?
Chapter 1 The One Where I Met Jesus
Chapter 2 The Sheep and Son
Chapter 3 Nicodemus
Chapter 4 What If?
Chapter 5 The Woman at the Well
Chapter 6 Pick the Flowers
Chapter 7 Man Possessed by Demons
Chapter 8 The Battle
Chapter 9 Blind Beggar
Chapter 10 Vision
Chapter 11 Woman Bleeding
Chapter 12 Victory
Chapter 13 Zacchaeus
Chapter 14 Jump
Chapter 15 Mary
Chapter 16 Nightlight
Chapter 17 Judas
Chapter 18 Which Way
Chapter 19 Peter
Chapter 20 In the Rain
Chapter 21 Pontius Pilate
Chapter 22 Michael
Chapter 23 It’s Not Over
Chapter 24 He Comes
Chapter 25 Who Am I?
Introduction
Who Are You?
1988 - Summer
I pumped my elementary arms and legs as fast as I could, racing toward my one goal: shoving a sock down Jonathan’s throat. His laugh ricocheted back to me, sharp as razors, cutting into my skin and fueling my determination. Since puberty hadn’t yet made him taller, faster, or stronger than me, catching him was easy. Then again, looking back as an adult, maybe it was never all that hard. Funny how, when you finally get your hands on what you want, you’re not quite sure what to do with it.
I grabbed his arms and locked my bright blue eyes onto his dark brown ones. “Stop calling me toots,” I growled, grinding my teeth. I had no idea where that nickname came from, what it meant, or whether it was meant as an insult or a joke. All I knew was that I hated how it made him laugh every time he said it. With a quick laugh and a jerk of his arms, he wriggled free, yelling, “Whatever you say, toots!” as he darted away.
My name is Theresa. It means “the harvester,” which isn’t exactly exciting or romantic compared to other girls’ names, like “beautiful,” “delicate one,” or “sunny flower.” I pictured a farmer in a wheat field, scythe in hand—a dismal image, considering I’m allergic to wheat. Yeah... harvester doesn’t top my list of favorite names.
When my mom was pregnant with me, people would ask if she thought I’d be a boy or a girl. She’d grin and say, “Not sure, but we’re naming her Theresa.” I once asked her what would have happened if my brothers had been born first. “Never really thought about it,” she replied. The name was non-negotiable—she’d chosen it to honor her beloved cousin. And so, harvester it was.
Years later, in Spanish class, I thought I’d finally get my chance to reinvent myself. We were allowed to pick Spanish names! However, “Teresa” is already a Spanish name. Of course. My teacher insisted I stick with it.
Mom: 1. Spanish teacher: 1. Theresa: 0.
In 10th grade, Mr. Pickens, my English teacher, called me “Red.” “Oh, Red. Red. Red,” he’d say while handing back my papers. “I don’t know if I call you that because of your hair or because of how much red ink I waste grading your work.”
Mr. Pickens was the first person to tell me I was an exceptional writer. He graded us on two things: content and mechanics. Mechanics covered grammar, structure, and spelling—all my weakest points. One time, I misspelled “Henry” as “Henrey” throughout an entire essay on The Red Badge of Courage. I’m pretty sure he used two pens on that paper. But my content was always strong. He called my analysis insightful and clever, giving me content grades so high they compensated for the dismal mechanics scores: Mechanics: 70. Content: 130.
Even though I wasn’t fond of my red hair, I let the nickname slide because it felt... true. Like he’d noticed something about me, something unique.
That’s the thing about names—or nicknames. They stick. They define us in subtle ways. They’re like a first impression, the opening chapter of who we are. Some cultures wait years to name a child, wanting to ensure the name fits the person. Others choose names long before the baby is born, a shot in the dark at shaping destiny.
Names answer one of life’s most profound questions:
Who are you?
The dream started at a podium. Familiar faces stared back at me, waiting for a speech. I glanced down at my notes, but all they said was:
“Hello. My name is Theresa Sponsky.”
I flipped the pages, desperate for something more, but there was nothing. My heart pounded. I opened my mouth, the microphone crackling as I whispered, “Hello. My name is Theresa Sponsky.”
Silence. I shuffled papers, gripped my pen, and tried again.
“Hello. My name is Theresa Sponsky. I don’t know who I am.”
The audience blurred as I bolted from the stage. I ran into a dark library. Even in dreams, books are my refuge. I didn’t touch them—I couldn’t, with ink-stained hands. Instead, I sat on the steps and whispered into the quiet:
“Hello. My name is Theresa Sponsky. I don’t know who I am. There has to be more.”
Then I woke up.
The Japanese have a saying: You have three faces. The first is the one you show the world. The second is the face you reveal to family and close friends. The third face, the truest reflection of who you are, is the one you never show anyone.
Who am I? That question became my obsession. I tried listing titles and roles:
Christian. Wife. Mother. Teacher. Writer. Reader.
But none of them answered the deeper question. Who am I beneath the masks I wear? Beneath the shadow that follows me, whispering every failure, every fault?
That night, lying in bed, I whispered into the void:
“Hello. My name is Theresa Sponsky. And I don’t think I want to know who I am.”
Before sleep took me, a voice I couldn’t place answered:
“You know who you are. I will remind you.”
Relief and fear swept over me.
I had to know.