The Power of a Name

Years ago there was a fantasy film, The Never Ending Story, that my sister loved.  She’d watch it over and over and over again until she practically knew the entire script by heart – it was astoundingly annoying.  The plot of the film follows a  boy reading a book in which a world is destroyed bit by bit until the boy becomes part of the world.  Confused?  That’s ok, because that isn’t the important part.  This is:  when all that is left is a single grain of sand the beautiful, young princess says to the boy: “Say my name.” He whispers a name, and the world is instantly restored.  Behold – the power of a name.

And, you of course, know the whole Romeo and Juliet “A rose by any other name…blah, blah,blah.”  (Can you “blah,blah,blah” Shakespeare?)

When I was in school, every year the first week or two began with at least one teacher calling me “Heather.”  Now, I don’t think I look like a Heather, but, apparently, many, many middle-aged women think I should have been named “Heather.” My paternal grandmother, who was a little, uhm. . . dotty, would often call me by my sister’s name, but as she also didn’t remember my sister’s name, I just answered to “Layla” which, of course, was not my sister’s name.  For several years I also   retained my second husband’s last name, which he was chomping at the bit for me to change back, but it was my name;  I could do whatever I wanted with it. (I realize this makes me sound a bit petulant, but darn it, it was my name, and more importantly, my maiden name is realllly…uhm, harsh sounding.  You probably wouldn’t have changeed it back until you were ready either.)

Names matter.  When someone forgets my name or tells me the second they meet me that they won’t remember it, what they’re really saying is that I’m not important enough to be remembered.  Now, I’m not unreasonable; I get that we meet hundreds of people every year, and that we will not remember every one of them, but we can at least make an attempt.  I also realize that I do not remember everyone I meet, and I apologize if I have ever forgotten you; it hurts to be forgotten or even misremembered.  I think that drives home my point that there is truly something in this name business.

A name is so much more than how someone calls me to dinner; it encompasses my identity.  I may have graduated from UVA, I may be a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend, a volunteer, a writer, a runner, etc., but the only thing that says that I am all of those things is my name.

Jesus asked Peter who Peter said He was.  I’ve thought a lot about that question on my runs recently, and that question was about so much more than a name or Peter’s personal beliefs about Jesus as the Son of God.    I’m not going to explore that any further because that question is such a deeply personal foundational question – that, and I want you to keep reading.

But, naming appears in Isaiah, too, in a different context.   I love this part:  in Isaiah, it says that the Creator engraved my name on the palms of His hands.   I like that translation, by the way.  Engraving is so much more permanent than writing, no tattoos that have to get weirdly inked over, a la Billy Bob on Angelina’s arm, or lasered off.  God did this long before I was ever born, or in Southern speak, before I was a speck in my daddy’s eye.  No one bothers to name you unless they love you.  So, ergo, I am loved – deeply, finally, eternally – by the Creator.  I’ll take that any day.