Name

Name

People often say, “Your name is different.” Some even wrinkle their faces, as if they aren’t sure what to make of it. I first noticed that in elementary school. That’s when the questions started: “How did you get your name?”

Back then, I’d sit at my momma’s feet in the evenings, waiting for dinner or watching our family shows before bedtime, and I’d bring those questions to her. Usually in my high-pitched, whining voice. She’d stop me first: “Quit whining, I’ll answer you.” Then she’d tell me the story.

My mom explained that she and my aunt came up with my name while she was pregnant, already dreaming about who I’d be. She wanted to honor her mother—my grandmother, Stella—who had passed away when my mom was only eleven. Since boys are often named after men in the family and carry on a “Jr.” title, she wanted to do something similar for her daughter.

She loved the name Christina—and many of her friends were naming their daughters that at the time—but she wanted something more personal. So she gave it a twist. She blended “Stella” into the name and made me Cristella.

She also made a deliberate choice: no “H.” People often assume my name is spelled wrong and try to put one in, but she wanted it exactly this way. I remember struggling to explain that to my kindergarten and first-grade teachers, who insisted we practice writing our names without errors. I had to fight for my name to stand as it was.

Now I’ve grown to love it. I wear it with confidence. So when people give me odd looks, I simply smile and say:

“I’m named after my grandma. Her name was Stella, and my name is Cristella.”

But the most important thing about me is not just my name—it’s my faith. A man named Jesus gave me an identity far greater than any name.

Why should I gain from His reward?

I cannot give an answer.

But this I know with all my heart:

His wounds have paid my ransom.