Names

Learn the names of children, for they will inherit the earth;
Learn the names of clouds, for they have covered us and they will cover them;
Learn the names of trees, for the clouds are quick to fade away;
Learn the names of mountains, for the trees wither and decay;
Learn the names of stars, for the mountains crumble into dust;
Learn the names of God, for even the stars explode.

I was reading through some notes that I set down while my grandpa was dying of cancer. “Learn the names of children,” I had exhorted myself. Grandpa was very good at knowing the names of children, and adults too. He greeted people by name and remembered the important details going on in their lives. Graduating, getting married, moving, raising children, he had something to ask. Later on, in conversation with the family, he would continue to talk about seemingly insignificant people by name. Several people who knew him only from his frequent morning trips to Tim Horton’s attended his funeral, because they had a bond with him. Grandpa learned people’s names, people who most of us would not have considered important. “Learn the names of children”, I had written to myself. A few index cards later, another exhortation—“Do not forget the lessons learned at the brink!” Almost a year later, I haven’t learned very many names of children at all. There are few children about whom I know any details at all. A name would be a starting place, for then I could call them when I see them, or ask about them when I see their parents. Without a name, these efforts are barely possible.

Names are more important even than that. Names are only words, special words with special meanings. Not boy but Andrew. Boy is nobody, Andrew is somebody. (Unless his name is Boy, which would be a different matter!) Names are only words, but how can we say “only” words? Words are the clothing of thoughts, and we have a hard time seeing thoughts naked. Without words, we can’t think about anything, and likewise without names, we can’t think about any one thing.

Since knowing names is important to learn or to care about someone or something, names carry a certain respect. Towards the end of the Lord of the Rings, the forces of Mordor are laying siege to the great city of Minas Tirith. They have built a great battering ram to break down the main door. Soon, we learn that the siege engine has a name—Grond. It has a name, and a history. The door doesn’t have a name. There is no question as to whether or not Grond will be able to break through the door. It took three hits, but there was never any doubt.

My grandpa was a shy man, and I am sure that asking people’s names did not come naturally to him. Yet, there is no doubt that it was worth the effort. For him, of course, learning names was more than just memorizing an actual, literal name as it might appear on a birth certificate. Names need to be filled with meaning, such as habits, history, and personality. In a very real way the best part of life is filling words and names with greater and deeper meaning.

Many people—me and my bride to be included—are better with faces than names. Almost everyone is good with faces, and I think that for what I am trying to say, faces are almost like names. A face is like a visual name, for it is specific, we can remember it, and we can fill it with meaning. But faces are harder to share than names. When someone remembers your face, but not your name, there is no hiding it, and the feelings are awkward on both sides. The exhortation still stands—“learn the names of children”. Learn the names of their mothers and fathers as well. And if you do forget a lesson learned at the brink, hope that you wrote it down.