I chose the name Ethan for my son because of the profound imagery it conjured. Picture a vast array of animal species harmoniously gathered, two by two, within an ark crafted by devoted hands from resilient wood. I cherished the notion of a new beginning, reminiscent of a world enveloped in water, a substance that has cradled me throughout my life. The image of an ancient figure, Ethan, standing at the helm of his ark, stretching forth his hand to receive the twin symbols of tranquility—a dove and the olive branch it held—resonated deeply with me. Naming my son Ethan felt fitting, as why not honor a name imbued with such significance?
The day Ethan was born, the sun broke through after a deluge lasting forty days and nights. Born in Oregon, he arrived with a head of golden hair and a serene expression. Ethan was the first of my children to gaze back at me with inquisitive blue eyes, mirroring my own view of the world. His older sister, Emma, who was seven, held him in her small hands, while his capable four-year-old sister, Clara, looked on. His three-year-old brother, Liam, was utterly captivated, eager to explore every sound and movement Ethan made. We named him Ethan Paul, incorporating his father’s middle name, and completed the name with my maiden name, Ethan Paul Smith, before finalizing it with my husband’s surname, Ethan Paul Smith Johnson. “Ethan Johnson,” some joked, but the humor soon faded.
Tragedy quickly shadowed our joy, as Ethan was not destined to remain with us long. At his memorial service 15 months later, I read, “Ethan. He was ours for a brief but beautiful weekend. He entered this world on a Friday night, a fulfillment of our prayers, and arrived on Saturday morning while the world still slept. We experienced his wonder before dawn while others only dreamt of such miracles. As the day unfolded, he became a cherished part of our lives. We reveled in his every need, watched him slumber, shared laughter, and celebrated his milestones as he crawled and took his first steps. By Saturday evening, he had indelibly woven himself into our hearts. He had eight teeth and an infectious smile, and he joyfully clapped for himself with each new accomplishment. He expressed his desires loudly and pointed out everything he saw, finding joy in the simplest pleasures, including ice cream.
As Sunday dawned, we envisioned our future as a family of six. Ethan was integral to our existence, and our hearts were full of joyful memories. We began the day with his delightful noises, relishing every moment. We expressed gratitude for our family’s beauty and found contentment in our little world. However, by Sunday afternoon, Ethan had departed, and that perfect weekend had come to an end. He was the last to arrive but the first to leave, guiding us on an unexpected journey. We imparted all our knowledge to him, and in return, he taught us lessons beyond our understanding. His gifts were immeasurable, imparting wisdom without words. We remain eternally grateful and continue to yearn for those fleeting moments.
Twelve years later, we welcomed two more children into our lives and settled in Costa Rica—our family now complete, minus Emma who was off to college. Dropping her off was a poignant moment, stirring emotions I couldn’t ignore. Yet, when you’ve said goodbye to a child at a funeral home or left one behind in a cemetery, any farewell feels less daunting. I had started documenting the story of Ethan and the subsequent loss of his brother, Oliver. Named after the symbol of peace, Oliver represented the dove, and he took flight during his stillbirth, leaving us standing on the shore once more with empty arms and his name on our lips—Oliver James Smith Johnson. For three years, I worked to capture our sons’ story, cherishing the magical moments spent with them during their brief time with us.
One spring, friends visited with their three sons, including the eldest, Noah, who has autism. Noah’s parents were Ethan’s Godparents. Even though Noah hadn’t seen Ethan in years, he spent the week mistakenly calling Micah and our youngest, Isaiah, by Ethan’s name. Hearing “Ethan” echoed was music to my ears, and my sons took it in stride. As a lover of words, naming my children was one of the most fulfilling aspects of parenthood, and I often reflect on the silence where their names once resonated. As our visit with Noah concluded, I shared with Ethan’s Godfather how much I appreciated hearing Ethan’s name again. He expressed relief, thinking it might be painful for me, emphasizing how often bereavement is misunderstood.
Days later, I received a touching digital story from a relative titled “The Things That Matter.” In her brief three minutes of sharing what was important to her, she mentioned how Ethan had taught her daughter to climb stairs before he departed. This was yet another gift for me; hearing Ethan’s name brought warmth to my heart.
Even today, 16 and 17 years after their passing, I carry the absence of my sons each moment. Their names will remain on my lips until the end. When others hesitate to speak their names, it feels as though they have been forgotten. Each morning, I long to shout their names into the universe: “Ethan!” “Oliver!” For bereaved parents, these indeed are the things that matter.
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In summary, the act of naming carries profound significance, intertwining memories and emotions that endure long after loss. Embracing the fullness of our children’s stories, even in their absence, helps us navigate the complexities of grief while celebrating the love they brought into our lives.