I chose the name Noah for my son because it conjured vivid imagery in my mind. I envisioned all the animal species of the world harmoniously nestled together, two by two, aboard an ark crafted by dedicated hands from gopher wood. The notion of a new beginning captivated me—one where the Earth was enveloped in water, as I had always felt comforted by the embrace of the sea. The sight of the ancient Noah at the helm, extending his hand to receive the dove and the olive branch it carried, resonated deeply. When given the chance, why not name my son after such a significant figure chosen by God?
Noah entered the world on a Saturday morning, just after a 40-day rainstorm had cleared. He was born in Oregon, with a cascade of reddish-blonde hair and an expression of serenity. As the first of my children, he gazed into my eyes with a curiosity that mirrored my own perception of the world—blue. His sister, Anna, who was seven, welcomed him with joy, while his capable four-year-old sister, Carla, and his enraptured three-year-old brother, Eli, were equally captivated by him. We decided on the full name Noah Patrick, incorporating his father’s middle name, followed by Noah Patrick Moore, then Noah Patrick Moore Mitchell, finally adding my last name to complete the family name. “Noah Moore,” some teased, but the humor faded quickly.
Tragically, our joy was short-lived; Noah was not destined to remain with us long. At his funeral, 15 months later, I shared these heartfelt words: “Noah was ours for a brief but beautiful weekend. He arrived as an answer to our prayers early Saturday morning while the world slumbered. We experienced the wonder of him before dawn, while others merely dreamed of such miracles. As the day unfolded, we were enamored with his every movement. We watched in awe as he slept, celebrated his first foods, and cheered him on as he crawled and danced. By Saturday night, he had woven himself into our very essence.”
As Sunday dawned, we envisioned our family of six, and Noah felt as integral to our lives as breathing itself. Our day began with his cheerful sounds, and we cherished every moment. We were grateful for our beautiful family and felt complete. However, by Sunday afternoon, Noah had departed, and that wonderful weekend had come to a close. Though he was the last to arrive, he was the first to leave, teaching us lessons beyond our comprehension. We are eternally grateful for the gifts he bestowed upon us, which words cannot encapsulate.
Years later, we welcomed two more children into our family and relocated to Costa Rica, leaving Anna behind as she ventured off to college. While the emotional tug of dropping her off was strong, I found that saying goodbye was easier after having left my son in a cemetery. I had been chronicling the story of Noah and the loss of his brother, Jonah, whose name means “Noah’s dove.” Jonah flew to be with Noah during his stillbirth, leaving us once again with empty arms and his name lingering on our lips—Jonah Emmanuel Moore Mitchell. Over the past three years, I had been striving to capture the essence of my sons, who were with us for such a fleeting yet impactful time. Often, I would pause from writing and envision them toddling toward me, the memories of those days being cherished moments spent with them while their siblings were in school.
In the spring, our friends visited with their three sons, including their eldest, Adam, who has autism. Adam is Noah’s Godparent, and even though he hadn’t seen Noah for years, he spent the entire week mistakenly calling Micah and our youngest, Sam, by Noah’s name. Hearing “Noah” spoken was music to my ears, and my sons didn’t mind being called Noah at all. As a lover of words, naming my children was a joy I relished during pregnancy. I often feel the absence of their names in my life. When our time with Adam came to an end, I shared with Noah’s Godfather how much I appreciated hearing Noah’s name. He sighed in relief, thinking it would be painful for me to hear. This was yet another reminder of the complexities surrounding our grief.
A few days later, I received a touching digital story from a relative titled “The Things That Matter.” In her brief three minutes, she mentioned how Noah had taught her daughter to climb stairs before he left. Hearing his name again was a precious gift.
Even today, 16 years after their passing, I miss my sons every moment. I will carry their names with me to my grave. When others hesitate to mention our children, it leaves us wondering if they have been forgotten. Each morning, I want to shout their names to the Universe: “Noah!” “Jonah!” For bereaved parents, these are truly the things that matter.
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Summary: This heartfelt narrative explores the profound impact of naming a child and the enduring connection between a mother and her sons, Noah and Jonah, who left a lasting legacy despite their short lives. Their names continue to resonate in the author’s heart, reflecting the complexities of grief and the importance of remembrance in the journey of healing.