In a name

“In English my name means hope. In Spanish it means too many letters. It means sadness, it means waiting. It is like the number nine. A muddy color. It is the Mexican records my father plays on Sunday mornings when he is shaving, songs like sobbing. "

-Sandra Cisneros from The House on Mango Street

An author read an excerpt from House on Mango Street. I have not read this book since early high school. I liked it then, but I suspect much was lost to my youth. Lost on the 15 year old worried more about her bangs and the boy sitting next to her than the narrator’s voice. So when I hear this passage now it hits differently. It settles into me like a smooth stone in my pocket. A comfort and a heaviness. (read the full excerpt from the book here).

She asks us to write our own versions. Start with my name means…. And simply write for a few minutes.

It is a normal enough name. No one mispronounces it. Sometimes it shows up on the keychains or nameplates they sell in gas stations. There were rarely other Michelles in my class so I never had to use an initial. The Beatles even sang a song with the same refrain.

My name has never quite felt like it fit, but I’ve worn it anyway, like pants that are a little too tight and I’m happy to peel off the second I get home.

I know where my name comes from and like the narrator, is a connection to a grandmother. Her maiden name was Schell and I suppose my name is a nod to that. Unlike Cisneros, I don’t have stories about her being a horse of a woman. I barely know my family history. Although I know where the name comes from, I do not know what it actually means.

A quick google search remedies that. The name Michelle has French (like the Beatles song) and Hebrew roots that mean, “One who resembles God”.

And I’m not quite sure what to do with that, my name feels like it fits even less now.

Because I do not feel much like I resemble God. Unless God spills her coffee. Or loses her car keys. Or her patience. Unless God swears and laughs just a little too loud and has questionable tastes in music. Unless God hits snooze and can never remember to move the clothes from the washer to the dryer before they grow a mildew-y smell.

I pause in my humanity and lack for a minute and think what if it is true.

Despite my tendencies, I am forced to call up my best qualities rather than my questionable ones. I struggle to receive compliments and even more so to give them to myself. One who resembles God begs the question: What parts of me resemble a creator?

The me who stitches words together and scratches them out.

The me who lays parts of her heart out there that still feels a little tender.

The me who writes with hopes that a reader will see me but also themselves.

I’m no longer in school. I do not have to write out my name at the top of worksheets or headings on blue and white notebook paper. Even my email signature is automatic. But still, I give my name to the barista for my coffee. I sign it on the bottom of sympathy cards. I scribble an unreadable signature next to my name for attendance at a meeting that will likely be longer than I want. I type it next to titles of essays.

And now it will be hard to un see the meaning.

One who resembles God.

It is more of a hope and a reminder for me than a promise on my end.

Regardless of what our name means, we are all image-bearers.

We are all creators hoping to reflect parts of ourselves and parts of our Father.

The one who named you and the one who stitched you together.

And for the first time, my name feels like it fits.

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