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My name is Psalm. Yes, Psalm. Boring, right? But that’s the name my mom called me when I was born. My Dad had wanted to call me Job, but my mom would not have it.
“Have you seen any man called Job that wasn’t a carpenter or a bricklayer,” she had fired at my dad.
“Have you seen any man called Job that wasn’t a carpenter or a bricklayer,” she had fired at my dad.
“All the people named Job na so so suffer suffer!”
Mom certainly hadn’t heard of Steve Jobs (well, after he moved out of the garage) plus my oldman had suffered so much, having lived from hand to mouth since he lost his job thirty years ago, yet his name wasn’t Job.
Mom certainly hadn’t heard of Steve Jobs (well, after he moved out of the garage) plus my oldman had suffered so much, having lived from hand to mouth since he lost his job thirty years ago, yet his name wasn’t Job.
So, there was more to suffering than being called an ordinary name.
“Let’s call him David,” my mom had suggested. “It is simple and short. And remember he killed Goliath.”
“David? The man who stole another man’s wife? I can’t call my son David.
“Let’s call him David,” my mom had suggested. “It is simple and short. And remember he killed Goliath.”
“David? The man who stole another man’s wife? I can’t call my son David.
