Someone I know is a teacher. She teaches in a primary school.

It’s a tough job, but with huge rewards.

The other day she told me about a child in her class. She had noticed he was unable to spell his own name. There were different versions, but mostly incorrect.

Initially surprised at this basic lack she decided to address it. So, after a few weeks allowing him to settle in class and building a relationship of trust, she took the boy aside for twenty minutes at lunchtime one day. They worked step by step, using phonics, using visual recognition, building the letter patterns for the little boy. With practice, time and again he wrote his name correctly.

He left with a huge grin.

Throughout the remainder of the week he was found writing his name everywhere. Inside the front of his book, on the white board, on scraps of paper in snatched moments between the activities of the lesson.

What a gift! The gift of giving this youngster a tangible connection with who he is. His identity. The joy unbounded.

What’s in a name?

Everything, if it’s part of who you are.