“And after that came his brother out, and his hand took hold on Esau’s heel; and his name was called Jacob: and Issac was threescore years old when she bare them.
And the boys grew: and Esau was a cunning hunter, a man of the field; and Jacob was a plain man, dwelling in tents.”

-Genesis 25:26-27

It takes a lot of nerve to relate yourself to a biblical prophet. These are the men who called down fire from heaven to rain upon the enslavers. They struck the rebellious with leperosy, turned the invaders to flight, and called out she-bears to devour the scoffers. I would not want this type of person unhappy at me, so I feel I must tread carefully within this idea. However, from all the choices, Enoch to Malachi, I was lucky to end up with Jacob.

The name “Jacob” comes from a Hebrew word meaning “Supplanter”. Shortly before Jacob’s birth the Lord prophesied to Rebekah, his mother, while pregnant with twins: “Two nations are in thy womb, and two manner of people shall be separated from thy bowels; and the one people shall be stronger than the other people; and the elder shall serve the younger”. Even as his older brother Esau was pulled from the womb, Jacob grasped his heel, beginning the conflict between him and his brother.

Shelley is my mother’s maiden name. I trace it back to Wales. My Shelley ancestors, James and Margaret came to Utah, and were called to Joseph City, Arizona. They were, as I am, disappointed that it wasn’t San Bernadino. I visited the town, if it can be called that, last spring. As my mother waited in the car, I looked out over the vast expanse of the Little Colorado basin. I saw nothing remotely inviting, not even a tree to give shade from the desert sun, just mile after mile of dirty grey mudstone, dumped about the horizon like a fetid slime, only blistering hot. When I got back into the car my mother asked me if I knew what Grandma said about that place.

“No.” I replied.

“Godforsaken.”

The Boyle name traces back to the ancient “Baels” of Germany. The three Bael brothers decided to emigrate to the United States, but because of money they had to come one by one. The first two cane across and were registered with the name “Bael” The third met up with an interesting recorder at Ellis Island.

“State your name.” he said impatiently.

“Bael”

“What?” the recorder said, more impatiently.

“Ba-el”

“What!?

“BAI-EEL”

“Welcome to America Mr. Boyle, move along!”

The Germans and the British have been enemies for ages. Conflict and hatred has spilt their blood all across Europe. Even today, after two World Wars, they continue to bicker in the United Nations.

Yet this pales in comparison to the conflict between the Jews and the Arabs. I hear of the rivalry between Esau, the father of the Arabs, and Jacob, the father of the Jews every day. Al Queda, the war in Iraq, the street bombing in Israel, represent only a small grain of that battle.

I love my name. I wouldn’t want any other. It is an array of opposites. My mother, as she carried me in her womb, suggested two earlier names to my dad.

“Julian?”

“No, boys will call him ‘Julie’.”

“Well, what about Ebbon?”

“No, boys will call him ‘Gibbon’.”

“Jacob?”

The Jews stand opposite the Arabs, the Germans stand opposite the British, and I stand, and look at my name.