My Name, His Name

“Dear Sister Hall…”

“Oh, wait!” It's my brother, pointing. Someone is coming up the front stairs. 

“Oh, come on!” My heart is pounding. I'm one scroll away from knowing where I will spend a year and a half of my life, and I'm breathing fast; there's not enough air in my living room. 

My mom grabs the door and urges my friend inside. “Come in, come in. She's starting! It's now!”

She gets inside, and I think the door gets closed, but I'm reading. My voice is vibrating, and I fear I'll trip on my tongue, but I need the words to come out faster.

“Dear Sister Hall:

“You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the Canada Montréal Mission!” I immediately know that it is right. I, Sister Lydia Hall, am called to represent the Lord among the people of Canada. 

 I wrote this essay when I was halfway done with my mission and today—almost three years later—I marvel at my faith. When I decided to rewrite this essay, I intended to scratch everything and start over, but I couldn’t deny the beauty of the present tense account. I’ve gained a lot of knowledge in retrospect, but I can’t help feeling like I’ve lost something that the younger version of me understood. So I’ve chosen to preserve the essay as I wrote it, and write between the lines. 

Helaman, an ancient American prophet, named his two sons after their forefathers, and he counseled them on this wise: “I have given unto you the names of our first parents … that when you remember your names ye may remember them; and when ye remember them ye may remember their works … that it is said, and also written, that they were good. 

“Therefore, my sons, I would that ye should do that which is good” (Helaman 5:6-7).

I want it to be said of me and written that I, Lydia, did good works among my brothers and sisters. To have my name associated with good and with God, connected forever with the name of Christ, like it is on my nametag.

My sincerity amazes me. I mean that sincerely. And I wonder, like every returned missionary does, how much good I really did. Living in Montréal was wonderful; everyday I walked down crooked streets with tall brick buildings and steep outdoor staircases feeling almost like I was in Europe. The people are diverse and bright and I wonder if anyone knew I was there after I left. 

The Missionary hopes to leave a legacy of conversion behind them, but not all do. There are a lot that leave the opposite impression. A lot of the best parts of religion stand or fall on sincerity, so I’d like to hope that my goodness was impressionable, marked by all the people I met and taught and listened to, and cared for.  I hope that even if my impression on them has faded, that their impression on me has become indelible. That even if no one says or writes about my goodness, that goodness has changed me. I pray that I can be good, really good. Goodness is only good if it’s sincere. 

“Hey, Hermana,” Hermana P. taps my knee.  “I'm good to go when you are.” 

It's preparation day in the Missionary Training Center, and we have to go downstairs to get our laundry before someone moves it. 

I give Hermana P. a thumbs up and say, “Sorry, Mom, I have to go pretty soon.”

“Oh. Okay.” My mom isn't too sad at the abrupt end to the call, after all I've only been gone a month and she gets to see me once a week, which is far and away better than it was for my older siblings. They could only call on Christmas and Mother’s Day; I can’t imagine it. “You'll call at the same time next week? 

“Yeah.” I adjust my earbuds. “Could you do me a favor?”

“Hmm?” My mom is jotting down a note on the side of the armoire.

“Could you say my name?”

She smiles her ‘my kids are adorable’ smile. “Lydia, Lydia, Lydia, Lydia, Lydia, Lydia.” 

I close my eyes for two blinks and savor the sound of my first name. I always liked my name— the sound of it, the length—but I've never missed hearing it before. I miss it now.

I've never had a different name, not even a nickname, so to be called something else is uncomfortable; more uncomfortable than I expected. My brother emailed me and called me Hermana Hall, and I emailed him back and told him to call me Lydia. That's who I am. Hermana Hall doesn't feel like me yet. She will, but I'm still figuring out how to wear the name.

My plaque says Hermana Hall, and under that, La Iglesia de Jesucristo de los Santos de los Últimos Días.

I bear my name and the name of Christ pinned over my heart: I’ll avoid the obvious symbolism and cut straight to the weight of the matter. That little plastic plaque, smaller than a note card, pulled like an anchor on good days and a ball and chain on bad. It was exhausting to represent the only perfect being to walk the earth and the imperfect legacy of Christendom that followed Him at once. 

I think about Bishop Diego de Landa, a Christian missionary in the Yucatan Peninsula, who was responsible for burning a thousand years of Mayan manuscripts and records. I think about the Crusades, a bloodbath to reclaim the land of Christ’s birth. I think of the Mountain Meadows Massacre, carried out by members of my own faith, who despite being good Christians for the rest of their lives, killed one hundred and twenty people.

But then there’s Bartolomeo de las Casas, who opposed the conquistadors and the inhumane treatment of the native peoples and advocated for them for over fifty years. William Tinsdale, who died so that the common person could read the Holy Bible in English and come to know God for themself. Samuel Smith, who set out with a few copies of the Book of Mormon and a conviction to bring the world the gospel.

And then there I was. A missionary with a name tag, one among thousands, preaching the good word of God; at the same time alone except for a companion who also wore the tag. The name of Christ distinguishes for better or worse.

“And those who did belong to the church were faithful; yea, all those who were true believers in Christ took upon them, gladly, the name of Christ, or Christians as they were called, because of their belief in Christ who should come.” 

Alma 46:15

“What is up with you, Sister Hall?”

I've never had someone use my name as a throwing knife, but from our first day as companions when she calls me ‘Sister Hall’ it’s a physical assault. A kick in the stomach. She's got her stupid long nails in the fabric of myself and is shredding me. Her words are arrows to the identity. At least she never calls me Lydia. That name is mine; that name is sacred. Sister Hall is just a title. 

“Can you come back in here, Sister Hall?” My stomach pinches—I don’t want to go back there. I know she’s going to yell at me.

It's just a title.

“Do you have a problem, Sister Hall?” What she's doing is wrong, but I can’t stand to be hurt anymore. If I don’t stand up for myself, she doesn’t tear me down. 

It's just a title.

“Sister Hall!” I never want to hear her say my name again. It's still me, and it still hurts.

Remember how there are two names on my plaque? One is far more powerful, kind, peaceful, and good than the other. Jesus Christ is my healer, so I bear His name and endure with hope. 

 My time with Hermana R. was the worst month and a half of my life, and represents a very real circumstance for a lot of missionaries: not everyone who’s trying to be like Jesus is kind and loving. Sometimes you’re assigned to work with someone who’s best attempt to love you damages your mind, body and spirit. Sometimes your companion is abusive. Hermana R. loved me; I was one of her favorite companions. I lost sleep, missed meals, and lost a chunk of my self-confidence that took years to get back. 

I wish I could go back and grab my shoulders and say, “Let go of your pride and ask for an emergency transfer. You don’t have to go through this.” I wish I understood then like I do now that Christ suffered so that we need not be alone, but that requires us to ask for help. 

“Yea, blessed is this people who are willing to bear my name; for in my name shall they be called; and they are mine.”

Mosiah 26:18

“Lydia!” My name startles me out of my conversation with Sister S., and I turn to find a letter addressed to ‘Hermana Lydia Hall’ offered by Elder N. I knew his voice when he said my name, but in this office surrounded by people wearing matching plaques, I am Sister Hall, not Lydia. It’s a shock to hear my name, at once familiar and strange. Like dark chocolate; enjoyable, but not sweet.

Sweet gray-haired Sister S. asks, “Is he allowed to do that?” without looking up from her computer. I’m the only one who hears her—everyone else has moved on, no one else got an electric shock straight to their identity—and I think about it. Has my name become such a precious thing that only a few are allowed to say it? Or is it simply respect that dictates he say Sister Hall instead of Lydia, even if we are friends? 

Every night for the last few months of my mission, when the workday was done, I would tell my companion, “I love you, don’t talk to me until 10:20.” Then I would put my headphones in and listen to the voice recordings that my friends had sent me over and over again, just to hear voices that sounded like home, just to hear someone call me Lydia. The need to hear voices hold my name tenderly was a physical ache.

I’d tried calling my companions and others by their first names, but it made people nervous and uncomfortable. I understood respecting the title “elder” or “sister,” but I also understood that everyone was in literal fact my siblings. They wouldn’t always wear suits and ties and skirts and plaques and neither would I. So privately, I said their names and held their identities sacred in my heart. I still hold those names carefully, gently. That is the ultimate form of respect, not a title before my surname, even if that title is missionary. 

I am called in the name of Christ and respond to His name as my own. It is my duty to honor His name for “some day [I] will have the privilege and the obligation of reporting … to [my] Father in heaven … what [I] have done with [His name]”(George Albert Smith, Your Good Name). That name is a freeing weight, a gift of trust to a loving daughter. I was given that name not when I put on the plaque that proclaimed it, but when I was a child and first professed belief such that I was baptized. I still remember faintly what the interview with the bishop was like and how bright and powerful it was to say, “I believe in Jesus and God.” I hold that feeling as close as I do His name. 

I’m older now, more broken. The abuse from Hermana R. is not the only wound I bear and sometimes the grief and guilt overwhelm the tender voice of peace that I was promised would be my guide. It’s harder to feel a belief when your mind is damaged. It’s harder to hold on to God’s promise: 

“Even unto them will I give in mine house and within my walls a place and a name better than of sons and of daughters: I will give them an everlasting name, that shall not be cut off.” (Isaiah 56:5)

“Lydia!” Sister H. and Sister C. are standing further back on the platform waiting for the metro to pull in. I walk back to them, hands in the pockets of my parka. 

“Did you not hear us saying, ‘Sister Hall?’” Sister C. says.

As a matter of fact, I didn't. I shrug, tipping my head to my shoulder. This isn’t the first time this has happened with these two. I never notice when they say ‘Sister Hall’ to get my attention.

Sister H. gestures at me, rings flashing on her fingers, “We were like ‘Sister Hall, Sister Hall! Hermana Hall!! LYDIA!’” 

“I swear I didn't hear you!” I protest with a smile on my face.

Sister H. says something with a laugh in her eyes, but it's caught up and blown away in the noise of the blue line metro cars coming to whisk us away. 

Doors open and close with us on the other side of them, and the train lurches into motion.

I want to talk about this weird thing my brain does, refusing to acknowledge anything but my first name, but the moment has passed, and the metro speeds out of the station.

I acknowledge myself now. I don’t let anybody call me a nickname. The name on every degree I get will be Lydia Hall. I defend my name and my right to be called by my name and given the credit for my accomplishments. 

My missionary plaque is now a magnet on my fridge and I wonder if that’s disrespectful. I don’t know if I defend His name so fiercely now as I did then. Maybe I know too much about the pain people feel because of Christians. The pain we inflict on each other, when we should instead be following Christ. We send missionaries into all the world to spread a message of hope and light and love, and those young people believe the message they carry. I believe it, but I can’t share His name the same way I used to. 

What do you think of Christ? I think we don’t know Him well enough, because if we did we’d act differently, better. 

Do you believe in His name? I have never not believed. My profession —“I believe in Christ”—now carries years of experience with his grace. 

Will you be saved? He saves me every day, mostly from myself. 

“His is the name by which we are called at the last day…there [is] no other name given nor any other way nor means whereby salvation can come unto the children of men, only in and through the name of Christ, the Lord Omnipotent.”

 Mosiah 3:17

My name is a clarion call: Lydia, Lydia. Sounding over the crashing waves of noise, slicing through seas of people, no matter how soft the sound, I recognize the call. My name is sacred, consecrated to my God. The only gift I can give him; the gift He gave me first: my life, my will, my being. All that I am is encompassed by my name, and all that I can become is possible through His. Through His name I breathe, I stand, I heal, I serve. I breathe, I stand, I heal, I serve.  His is the name by which I will be called at the last day; His name is the way to salvation. I will wear His name for eighteen months, but I will bear His name into eternity. I bear His name, then and now and forever.