My name has no real meaning.
My father chose it because he liked the way it sounded.
He heard the name in high school and remembered it.
When I appeared, the die was cast.
Mom succeeded in shortening it
and for a long time my real name was forgotten.

I believe names are more than tags.
Partly they shape us and partly we shape them.
I searched in vain for an origin, a real meaning for my name.
All paths led back to the same conclusion:
my name was fabricated somewhere along the line
by sticking pieces of other names together and modifying spelling.

The common belief is that my name is from “laurel” — the tree,
from whose boughs crowns were made and given to athletic champions.
The implied meaning is “victorious.”

But I discovered something else in my journey.
The kernel of the word in Old English means:
“learning, what is taught, knowledge, doctrine.”
The suffix is Irish, a diminutive implying “little” or “dear.”
So, putting these two pieces together
I could argue that my name means “dear little learner.”

At the end of the day, it really doesn’t matter.
(‘Tis true, Bill:  a rose by any other name . . .)

Since one of my passions is teaching
and I want nothing more in my life than to sit and learn at the feet of Jesus,
I would like my name to mean “little learner.”

And that is what matters.

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