About 27 years ago, I was standing in a foyer of our church with other children and we were asking a man what our names meant.  I listened as he proudly pronounced their meaning – almost as a blessing – over each child who asked for the meaning of their name.  I don’t remember the man well.  I couldn’t tell you who he was.  His face is blank in my mind.  I just remember that he was tall and he seemed to like the attention as parents stood listening at the edge of this throng of children.  Eventually, after hearing positive words spoken over several other children, I asked for the meaning of my name.  The man asked my name.  I told him.  Though I cannot remember his face, I’ve never forgotten how his face dropped and he simply said, “It’s a Hebrew name.”  He went on to other children, but naturally the future lawyer in me could not let it drop.

I asked, “But what does it mean?”

I remember his eyes filled with dread when he said, “It’s a city in the Bible.”  He turned again to move on to other children.

“But what does it mean?”  I asked again, this time a little more soberly.  I saw both of my parents begin to inch forward to intervene.  They too had seen the man’s face change when he spoke to me.  My mother’s mouth opened, but before she could speak, the man answered me.

“Do you really want to know?” he asked.

I knew that it was going to be bad, but still I said, “Yes.”

“Your name means House of Poverty.”

I felt like I’d been punched.  My jaw dropped.  He turned away and smiling began to answer the other children.  A big green-tinted pus-filled boil began to grow in the center of my brain and a weight hung around my neck.

My mom culled me out of the crowd and whispered, “That’s not what it means.”

I was stunned.  Numb.  I heard my father call for my sister – my sister who’s first name means “love” and who’s middle name means “favored” and I was House of Poverty.

My father herded us all out to the car as my mom kept assuring me that the man was wrong.  I knew she would say that because she was a mom and moms are supposed to make bad things be… well, un-bad.

I spun it over and over in my mind.  My broken and numbed heart tasted the words.  My young heart accepted it.  I was “House of Poverty.”  That was all I’d ever be.

Unbeknownst to me, my mother had begun asking others familiar with the Hebrew language what my name meant.  Days later she came to me excited.  She proudly said, “Your name is NOT House of Poverty.  That was just a stupid man.  Your name means House of Bread.”

That wasn’t much better.  Bread is bland.  It is the most basic of food.  They serve nothing but bread and water in jail in the movies.  Bread was likely just a nicer name for Poverty.  No, there was no evidence suggesting the first man was wrong.

So, for the last 27 years I’ve gone around with the name House of Poverty.  Whenever I’d have a financial setback, I’d think, “Well, it’s only natural.  After all I am House of Poverty.”  When I took out student loans, I’d think, “I doesn’t matter.  I’ll never be debt free because I am House of Poverty.”  When I’d go through a break up, I’d think, “Well, Poverty doesn’t have to be just financial.”  When I decided to pursue adoption and then found out it would cost $38,000.00, I dropped my 20-year dream for 24 hours because I am House of Poverty.

When I learned I would be adopting a newborn, I was shocked.  I always assumed that as a single woman I’d get a toddler.  I was even more shocked when my mom asked what I’d name her.  It never occurred to me I’d get to name a child.  I figured a toddler would already have a name.  So, I’ve been researching the meanings of various names.  I even researched the names of everyone in my family – except mine.  I already knew that I am House of Poverty.

Through the years, several times I’ve asked the Lord to break the curse of my name.  I never felt like He answered those prayers.  Last night, the weight of House of Poverty finally became too much and I began to research my name.  The first website simply said it was the Hebrew name of a city in the New Testament.  It offered no meaning at all.  The second website gave the original Hebrew words that linguists and etymologists believe Bethany derives from.  Those original words mean House of Figs.  The weight of Poverty began to lift.  Figs are sweet, exotic, expensive, a treat.  They are found in houses of plenty – not houses of poverty.  The evidence for this meaning seemed sound and with relief, I started to accept it.  I looked at a few more websites.  Most said House of Figs, but one (without any sound research) said Daughter of the Lord.

I stopped.  I knew there was no evidence for this meaning and yet…

And yet that is who I am when you strip away all other labels and all other names.

I am Daughter of the Lord.

And so are you.  We are all daughters and sons of the living God whether we choose to accept Him or not.

I am Daughter of the Lord.

At the first of this year, instead of making New Years Resolutions, I prayerfully chose one word that would define the year.  I thought it would be love so I could work on loving people better.  After three weeks of prayerful consideration, I felt lead to the word IDENTITY.  I was confused at first, but everything this year has pointed to regaining and reclaiming my identity.  Identity is the foundation of everything we say and do.  This part of the reclamation process was imperative.  I am NOT House of Poverty.  I am not even House of Figs.

I am Daughter of the Lord.

I wish I could see the name man again now.  He created a boil – a pocket of infection – in my brain when I was 12 years old.  Last night, truth lanced that boil.  If I ever saw the naming man again, I’d tell him what his words had done.  I’d ask him why he wasn’t smart enough to just say, “I don’t know.”  I’d ask if that one afternoon of fame had been worth my 27 years of living with a pus-filled boil in my brain.  Then, I’d punch him square in the nose and standing over him I’d shout:

“My name is Daughter of the Lord, you moron!”