When it came time to name my son, I chose the name Noah for its profound imagery. I envisioned a serene ark, filled with pairs of all the world’s creatures, gently rocking in harmony. The notion of a fresh beginning resonated deeply with me, especially since I have always felt connected to water, having spent my life surrounded by it. The powerful image of Noah on his ark, extending his hand towards the dove carrying an olive branch, symbolizing peace, inspired me. Ultimately, why not name my son after someone chosen by God?
Noah entered our lives after a prolonged rain—a fitting arrival in Oregon. He had beautiful, reddish-blonde hair and a calm demeanor. His sister, Lily, who was seven, cradled him with delight, while four-year-old Grace and three-year-old Ethan marveled at every little thing he did. We named him Noah James, honoring his father’s middle name, and added my maiden name, making him Noah James Thompson. As our family joked about his name—“Noah Thompson”—the humor soon faded into something more poignant.
Tragedy, however, soon shadowed our joy, as Noah was not with us for long. At his funeral, I read these words: “Noah was ours for a brief yet beautiful weekend. He came into our lives on a Friday night, bringing us joy and love as our prayers were answered. Even in that short time, he became an integral part of our family. We cherished his every coo and giggle, and by Saturday night, he had stolen our hearts completely. He had eight tiny teeth and a radiant smile, and we celebrated his first steps together. We were a family of six, dreaming of our future, until Sunday afternoon when we had to say goodbye. Our precious time together was irreplaceable, and his spirit continues to teach us in ways we are only beginning to understand.”
Twelve years later, our family had grown to include two more children, and we found ourselves living in Costa Rica, where we had to leave Lily behind at college. While saying goodbye was bittersweet, I realized that having previously left my son in a funeral home made other farewells feel less daunting. I had spent years crafting the story of Noah and the heartbreak of losing his brother, Jonah—whose name means “Noah’s dove.” Jonah’s journey ended in stillbirth, leaving us with aching hearts and empty hands.
During a visit from friends and their three sons, I was unexpectedly touched when the eldest, Alex, who has autism, kept calling Ethan and our youngest, Sophia, by the name Noah. Each time I heard his name, it was like music to my ears. For a word lover like me, naming my children was one of the most joyful parts of my pregnancy journey, and the absence of their names was a silence that echoed painfully. When Alex’s parents reassured me that hearing Noah’s name wouldn’t hurt, it reminded me how often our grief is misunderstood.
A few days later, I received a heartwarming digital story from a relative titled “The Things That Matter.” In it, she mentioned how Noah had taught her daughter to climb stairs before leaving this world. Hearing his name spoken again was a precious gift.
Even now, 16 and 17 years after their passing, I carry the memory of my sons with me every single day. I long for the chance to shout their names to the universe: “Noah!” “Jonah!” For bereaved parents, these names represent everything that truly matters.
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