I have friend whose middle name means “happy”. We’ve been friends since we were fourteen; he has known me longer than anyone outside of my family in the town where I now live. His father, a gentle man with olive skin, came to know Christ after the rest of his family had already done so. There is nothing that could’ve made my friend more happy. His father is from Syria.
I have a friend whose name means “victory”. She and I have shared tea together often, engaging in long conversations as she held my hand, her eyes full of tears, her intelligent mind struggling to learn our language. I have another friend whose name means “one who laughs”, who wears an almost constant wide smile (pictured above) and just moved to a small midwestern town to be a pastor. Both of these friends are from Iran.