Rachel and Rey

Over the years, I have written and rewritten numerous beginnings to posts like this one, but none have made it out of my notes app.

Recently, I’ve been asking myself, why?

Why can’t I share as easily and frequently as I used to?

When I made a post mentioning the idea of a new blog, I received a ton of support.

It became rapidly clear I have a diverse and large community, with more of you paying attention than I thought.

The difficulty with sharing began to make sense.

For starters, there is an entire community that only knows me as Rachel, and another that only knows me as Rey. 

Then there are those who prefer one over the other.

Finally, there are a handful of people who know both, love both, and understand both.

This post may seem to be about an identity crisis, but what it really is about, is a community crisis.

I love my community. All of it, even the parts I am no longer allowed to be apart of. Because for better or worse, they are apart of me.

I have found grace for myself in the realization that I am trying to juggle all of your potentional perceptions of me.

We have devout Christians, progressive believers, atheists, agnostics, and more.

And that’s just religious differences.

There are Trump supporters, the anti-Trump republicans, the democrats, independents, and again, more.

Then there’s my friends from around the globe. Mexico, Guatemala, Nepal, India, Lesotho, Eswatini, Nicaragua, Uganda.

A lot of very different people could read this. From the hundreds of people I grew up with for 20 years, to four Canadian gals I recently met over Fortnite.

To open this door and start sharing my words again is scary, and risky. Now more so than ever. And there is no way for me to know for sure who will read this.

Thinking of all of you, and what you may or may not know or think about me, makes my head spin so much I could be sick. 

Some folks have heard certain stories dozens of times, while others are unaware there are even stories to tell.

A few may even be wary of the stories I could share. It is for those folks that I want to make my intentions clear: I am not here to call you out by name, or to cause you pain or trouble.

It is because I love you, that I think these stories will do better work in your heart and the hearts of others instead of being locked away inside my mind.

Ultimately, only I can tell the truth about Rachel and Rey.

And ultimately, obviously, I am both.

It feels conceited typing so much about myself, and honestly a little silly.

But since these words could make it to people who don’t even know me at all, let me introduce myself.

I am Rachel Lynn Flemmer, born April 22nd, Earth Day, 1998, in Jacksonville, Florida.

I grew up a short drive from the beach. To give you an idea on the type of kid I was, my dad said that my older brothers, Steven and David, turned their faces away from the ocean when they were toddlers. 

But I ran towards it. 

My mom says I would vanish, plopping down on strangers’ beach blankets, asking if they wanted to be friends. 

Now, my parents still live in my childhood home, and to the amusement of my dad and distress of my mom, I still have no fear of the ocean. I don’t sit on strangers’ beach blankets anymore, though. 

I grew up in a conservative Christian household.

When most babies are dedicated in the church, they scream or cry when the water touches them. But apparently, I fell asleep. People told my family that the Holy Spirit must have been strong in me. I wonder what those same people would say now.

My church community was my home. It was all I knew, and I loved every bit of it.

I found myself visiting friends in other churches, and bringing different denominations together for events. Bridging those gaps brought me immense joy, and to this day, I smile when I see a friendship, or a marriage, or an event that I helped butterfly effect into motion.

I lived and breathed VBS and Sunday School, youth retreats and summer camps, and later, mission trips and worship leading.

When I heard about The World Race Gap Year, a nine month mission trip, despite the immense fear of the journey, every song, verse, conversation, and dream began to point me in that direction. Deep in my gut, I felt that it was where I needed to be.

I also had some other feelings that I couldn’t shake. A secret that I held dear and called, “my thorn in my side” and, “my cross to bear.”

When I was praying over and debating the trip, a friend who had done The Race told me, “if you do The Race, your life will snowball.”

She didn’t mean it in a bad way, and I didn’t take it in a bad way. There was no way that I would come back the same. I thought that would just mean trauma, or reverse culture shock. But it was much, much more than that.

I remember a practice on The Race we called listening prayer.

We would ask God to guide us, and we would write down the images, phrases, or whatever else that would come to mind. Then we took to the streets and followed whatever connected.

I loved this practice, and had an eerie knack for it.

One time I drew a 4 of clubs in my journal, and then steps into our walk after saying, “which way do we go?” I saw a card facedown in the dirt.

You can guess what it was. 1 in 52 chance, I know.

But it wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last time that these coincidences took place.

There was one phrase that for the longest time, I couldn’t understand, and didn’t see the follow through of it.

I wouldn’t even be praying!

For the last few months of The Race, and months after, if I was alone, or looking at my reflection, one phrase would go through my mind like some sort of whisper on an inner wind.

“What is your name?”

I nearly went bananas praying and journaling about what in the world God was trying to get through to me.

I would even argue. It would go like this:

“What is your name?”

“Rachel. Hebrew for little lamb. Or female sheep. Or innocent one.”

“Rachel. What is your name?”

“Rachel! Like a sheep! Like the parable of Jesus leaving the 99…Aw, you mean I’m the one you go after?”

“…Rachel, what is your name?”

Round and round we went, me and this annoying little voice.

Now, let me introduce you to Rey.

In Spanish, Rey means King, but to be honest, when I first wrote it like that, it was simply because I had recently watched Star Wars The Force Awakens and liked the way Rey was spelt. But when did the switch happen? 

Why did the switch happen?

Well, for those who think I ditched town and adopted a new name immediately, that was not the case.

For a couple years, Manhattan, Kansas knew me as Rachel.

It wasn’t until I was a paraeducator at a summer school after COVID, when I introduced myself to my new boss for the first time. For reasons I do not even fully understand, I said, “hi, I’m Rey.”

I nearly kicked myself, waiting for lighting to strike me dead. Or for my boss to smack me across the face and yell, “Rachel, you liar!”

What was I doing?

Before I knew it, my entire community here in Manhattan knew me as Rey, and only Rey. Especially since once of my close coworkers is named Rachel, it flowed in a way that felt different, but natural and wonderful. It was like a nod to my mom’s maiden name, Ray, as well as a tribute to my full name.

It didn’t occur to me till recently, that the blasted whisper in my mind now made sense. 

The question plagues me no longer.

The hard-to-explain uncomfortability with my given name, resolved.

A silent prayer, answered.

And now, one story told.

Until next time.

Thank you for reading.

Love, love, love to you all.

P.s. Sorry if the website is wonky – still learning the ropes!