The Redemptive Story Behind the Name “Tez”
Over the years, people have asked me what “Tez” means. My response can be anywhere from “It’s a nickname” to a more in-depth explanation if I’m feeling especially transparent and they have the time.
I was born Terry Dean Brooks—not Terence, just Terry. After four male children, Mom and Dad wanted a girl so badly they decided to call the next child Terry, regardless the gender. I’m fairly certain one should never tell this to their young boy, but Mom didn’t mean any harm. Had she known how it would affect me, she would never had said it. Nevertheless, it was the beginning of some interesting issues I had to deal with.
Unathletic and bit husky, I was drawn to creativity and the arts and was a bit of a momma’s boy. During my elementary years, I was often bullied and called cruel terms like “Terry the fairy.” I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I knew it was feminine and, since I was a boy, it had to be bad.
I often found refuge on the weekends when I attended church with my guy friends who accepted me and made me feel safe. Eventually, even church was not safe. A man there, noticed my sensitive demeanor and took advantage of my need for male attention. This pedophile started grooming me at age seven (as well as several of my church friends) with kindness, gentle touches, gifts and finally, boundary testing. He eventually molested me as a young teen. None of us kids told each other—we were too ashamed. I blamed myself and buried the memory deep into my subconscious, until all I recalled was a vague memory of something terrible I must have caused.
Puberty found me confused and wondering why my normal admiration of men had suddenly turned sexual. A lot of wires get crossed in a young boy’s brain when he’s been molested and then hormones flood his body. I struggled for decades, wondering why I was attracted to both women and men—silently walking out my salvation feeling guilty and as if God regretted I was his child.
Thankfully, God kept a short-leash on me and I never strayed far from his side. I married and had children. As missionaries, my family and I were assigned to Australia for a few years. That was where God did something miraculous for my personal healing.
A few months into our assignment, I re-connected online with one of my childhood friends from church. He opened up about his abuse by the same man. I was both numb and enraged.
The conversation turned dark as we shared details and how it affected our lives growing up. As I hung up, a light turned on in my head. I suddenly realized it wasn’t my fault. I shared what I’d discovered with my wife, that I hadn’t somehow tempted this guy to do it—he forced me.
As we talked, my wife said self-blame was typical for victims who can’t deal with the loss of control over the situation. After reasoning together for a while, we prayed, my head buried in her shoulder, weeping, healing.
We decided I should get some Christian counseling so I could work through these memories and gain a healthier understanding of how it affected my relationship with men, women, my parents, my brothers, and God. The months of counsel and homework were hard but good for my healing and maturity. I understood how Christ’s work on the cross had removed the disgrace I’d carried for decades. He took my shame upon himself, exchanging it by imputing his own honor and dignity into me.
During one of my prayer times with the Lord, I distinctly recall a sense that God was giving me a new identity, and with that, a new name. Of course, I assumed that meant some biblical name that meant something profound—like with Abram (Abraham) or Saul (Paul). And I assumed it would be private, between me and God,
Nope.
Australians love to assign nicknames. One playful method is to take a name ending in “ry” and change it to “ez.” Mary becomes Mez and Jerry is changed to Jez.
They called me Tez.
It made me smile. It wasn’t the nickname itself. Though the name didn’t have all the baggage of my birth name. There was more—something restorative about how they pronounced this new label.
When I entered a room, their deep, masculine bravados would call it out as if to announce to the world that their long-lost favorite television personality had walked on stage.
“Tez!” they would shout. Sometimes in unison, sometimes consecutively, as I passed by each of their offices. I felt loved. I felt treasured.
Meanwhile, more of my writing was being published. Magazine editors asked if I would use a pen name, since Terry Brooks was a famous fantasy fiction author. It wasn’t prudent for me to use the same name, so I agreed to the pseudonym “Tez Brooks.”
Before long, my wife started calling me Tez, and it stuck. I felt too old for a name change, but by the time we returned to the United States, it’s who I was. Only then did it occur to me God had indeed given me a gift in this new title. He’d transformed my heart, healing me from deep wounds. I arrived home a new man.
Very few people now know my given name. Except for my medical records, most everything (my mail, my bank, even my signature) changed to Tez. The old name, carrying memories of hurt and shame, has passed away.
“I don’t mean to say I am perfect, I haven’t learned all I should even yet, but I keep working toward that day when I will finally be all that Christ saved me for and wants me to be” (Philippians 3:12, TLB).
Some of my relatives can’t find it in themselves to call me Tez. That’s okay, old habits are hard to break, so I give them grace. Although they know about my past, perhaps they don’t understand the liberating nature of this name change. I’m grateful to those who do refer to me as Tez after calling me Terry for decades. Because each time they say Tez, it reminds me of God’s grace. It builds me up, making those people who’ve adopted this new label part of my redemption.
I understand how Simon might have felt when Jesus said, “I’m going to tell you who you really are. You are Peter, a rock.” (Matthew 16:18, MSG). More than a simple nickname—it’s my new identity in Christ.
