It happened in the grocery store today. I was standing in line waiting to order my half a pound of Boar's Head Roasted Turkey breast for the girls lunches when the kind lady behind the counter asked, "What is your daughter's name?."
She appeared to be of Indian descent, but I wasn't sure. She spoke with an accent. "Eleanor," I replied.
"What does it mean?," she asked as she efficiently passed the bag of deli meat over the counter.
Suddenly I was struck with embarrassment and fear. What DOES my daughter's name mean? I don't know? How could I name my child something and I don't even know the meaning? I gave a weak response of "my husband and I thought it was a beautiful name. Her middle name is her grandmother's name, but Eleanor, I actually don't know what it means." I felt so ashamed as I walked away, and so American. How amazing that I didn't even know the meaning of my daughter's name. I began to think how different our culture is that our family ties often mean so little and how quickly we have forgotten the significance of name and place. Who are we? Who are my children? What does a name mean? I begin to think of what a name means in Eastern cultures, about the very name of God- I AM- which was too holy to even be spoken. And our names, which, if we trust in Christ, are written in the Book of Life. How beautiful are each of our names, our precious names by which those who love us call us, by which we write to show our faith and honor and promise, and by which we are known even in the remembrance of death. So, after a bit of a search on Google, I will return to the lady with the beautiful smile behind the deli counter who sees life from a distant culture, and I will tell her that Eleanor means in Hebrew "My God is light."
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