"Gilda"

3 Nov 2013

 

Gilda means “God’s servant”.

I learned this in high school, in my freshmen Morality class (I went to Catholic high school), although now I can’t remember what language that meaning has its origin in (I think it’s Gaelic).

Looking back now, I know it was divinely appointed for me to learn the meaning of my name at this specific time of my life.  Think about it: the beginning of high school is when our independent identities start to set in; yes, it’s when we start rebelling against our parents, and talking back a little more than usual, but really, it’s because our adult personalities are starting to form.  At 14 or 15, we are old enough to start forming our own opinions, and pay attention to the world around us; we are no longer “kids”, both in our own minds and in the minds of those who start giving us more responsibility and holding us accountable for our choices.

So for me to learn, even if on the most superficial of levels, that I was made to serve God, changed everything.

 I say this now, without even having thought about it before! I think this knowledge, of what my name means, in one of probably hundreds of interpretations, subconsciously set me up for life.

I carried that label with me proudly for a couple of weeks after learning about it.  And then, I think it just settled into my soul.

My high school had a community service requirement worked into the curriculum; each student had to complete a certain amount of community service hours during each school year, or by graduation.  I threw myself into that.  I spent my Spring Breaks working the Knights of Columbus food booth at the county fair; over the summers I found festivals to work at, and over winter break, I decorated churches for Christmas.  I know I exceeded the requirement my school set forth.

But I know I struggled with wanting to “serve the most” and “be recognized for all the hours I put in”.  I know now that I was a very insecure teenager, and wanted desperately to be admired for something, anything.

 

I know now that back then, even though I was serving because it was what I was supposed to do (for God and people), I wasn’t serving because I wanted to hear God say, “Well done.”

 

I wanted to hear people say it.

 

And even though I am so grateful that I spent my teenage years looking for ways to help other people, instead of dozens of negative activities I could have taken part in; even though I now see how I spent my teens practicing for my adult life, for the time I spend now in the service of others; even though I love that at the age of 14, I had already decided that I loved to help, and that I loved people;  I know I still struggle with this recognition thing today.

 Lately, I’ve been bothered by the fact that I “haven’t found a place to serve in the church.”  I think it’s a mixture of pressure from the Christian society (to find my “ministry”), and pressure from myself to “be a leader”. 

 I’m learning that this is split-thinking. 

I can’t be a servant if I want to be a leader.

I’m reading through “The Purpose-Driven Life” right now with a friend, and the last few days’ chapters have been about serving, and how it is part of our design.  It’s been really eye-opening, and at times, nauseating, because it’s been shedding light on the parts of myself that are really ugly and that I don’t want to see.

 

I have learned that I am petty and competitive and that I compare my service to that of others.  I have learned that I am panicky and envious and that I “want to be seen” and “want to be associated with” and “want to be known for” serving in a certain setting.

 I want to hold on to the memory of learning what my name means as a high school freshman, and use that knowledge correctly now, for the first time ever.  I know I have always had the right intentions, so I will try not to beat myself up too much. 

 
But from now on, I want to enter into true servanthood.