I Wish

I have an American colleague here who, when introduced to someone with an Arabic name, always asks what their name means. I used to think this was odd -- not something we would do back home! But in Arab culture, names are very important, and people always have an answer for my friend. Said means "happy." Amira means "princess." Du'a' means "prayer." Sura means "to travel by night." Taghreed means "singing as a bird." One of my favorite names for a boy is Issa, which is the Arabic translation of Jesus.
I noticed a while ago that people often smile enthusiastically when I tell them my name. Recently, I learned that this is because my name has a wonderful meaning in Arabic. A friend aptly named Samir (which means "entertaining companion") explained to me that Amal means "hope" or "wish," and Amali turns it into "my hope" or "my wish." I feel quite blessed every time someone repeats my name with a smile, recognizing that it has a special meaning.
But I must confess that living up to this hopeful name is a challenge to me. Am I worthy of my name these days? Does a woman named Hope complain about the dusty, hot, stale desert air that's been stuck over Jerusalem for the past week? Does Hope become more and more disappointed and cynical as she watches the peace process disintegrate? Does Hope complain on a daily basis about stress and aching muscles while neglecting the yoga and meditation that she knows will keep her healthy? Does Hope ever simply wake up in a bad mood? I sure do.
But so does everybody, right? Our names are not meant to describe an ideal person, but the unique, precious individual our parents envisioned us becoming. A name is a gift, calling us to be the best version of ourselves. Maybe this new understanding will bring me a blessing, lift me up. Instead of feeling inadequate and unworthy of my own name, I can look to it as a touchstone, bringing me back to the person I wish to become. Mindful, hopeful, open, looking forward.