The process of giving a name to another human is deceptively simple. There is no requirement that we choose wisely, unless you live in Denmark, where there are regulations. In Iceland, you cannot name your daughter Zoe, because z is incompatible with that language. For a tongue that does not hesitate to string a dozen consonants together, it seems picky. 

 

There was a baby naming moment in church this week, when a darling child was baptized. It felt potent, to hear the sounds that will represent her for a lifetime. The congregation was invited to learn the sign language for a Biblical passage about naming, which made it all visible as well. Her mother was generous about letting several people inhale her sweetness, while she slept in their arms. First the baby was immersed in warm water, and later was dressed in a white, hundred years old gown.

 

Speaking a person's name feels sacred. I notice that God includes respect for His in the short list of Life's Regulations. 

 

There was a basket of white stones, and we were each welcome to take one. This referred back to a part of the Bible, where God offers us a new name. Nothing was written on it, which left us with infinite possibilities. We can grow into a new version of ourselves, if the old labels expire.