I chose the name Samuel for my son because it filled my heart with beautiful images. Picture the world’s wildlife nestled together, side by side, in a sturdy ark crafted from gopher wood, just like in the old tales. I adored the concept of a fresh beginning, with the Earth wrapped in my beloved water, having spent my life surrounded by the ocean’s embrace. I envisioned that legendary Samuel standing at the helm of his ark, reaching out to welcome the dual signs of tranquility—a dove and the olive branch it carried. Naming my son Samuel felt like an honor, a way to celebrate a divine choice.
Samuel’s arrival was marked by a radiant sun breaking through the clouds after an endless rain, typical of Oregon weather. He sported a tuft of reddish-blonde hair and had an aura of calm about him. He was the first of my children to look back at me with curious blue eyes that mirrored how I viewed the world. His siblings were there to greet him—his big sister, Lily, who was seven, and his younger sisters, Mia, aged four, and Grace, just three. His little brother, Peter, was utterly captivated by him, enchanted by every little sound and movement Samuel made. We decided on the name Samuel David, incorporating his father’s middle name into the mix. Samuel David Hart was perfect, and we sealed it with my maiden name, Samuel David Hart Williams. “Sammy Hart,” some would chuckle, but soon it wouldn’t seem so amusing.
Tragedy shadowed our joy, and Samuel was not with us for long. At his funeral, just 15 months later, I read these words: “Samuel. He graced our lives for one extraordinary weekend. He embarked on his journey into this world on a Friday night and became the answer to our dreams on a Saturday morning while the world slumbered. We reveled in his presence before dawn while others were still lost in dreams. As Saturday unfolded, we knew him, and he became part of us. We were mesmerized by his cries, we watched over him as he slept, we shared laughter, fed him his first bites, cheered him on as he crawled, and giggled as he danced. By Saturday night, he had woven himself into our very being. With eight little teeth and a radiant smile, he clapped with joy as he took his first steps and made his desires known with enthusiastic screams and pointed fingers. He found joy in books and had an undeniable love for ice cream.
As Sunday dawned, we envisioned our future together. We were a family of six, and Samuel was as essential to us as the air we breathed. We played together, creating memories that felt rich and profound. Our mornings began with his delightful sounds, and we cherished him all day long. We celebrated our blessings and reveled in our family’s beauty, grateful for our little unit and the contentment we found. But by Sunday afternoon, Samuel was gone, leaving us with a memory of a weekend that could never be replicated. He was the last to arrive but the first to depart, and we will forever follow the path he forged. We imparted all we could to him, and in return, he gifted us with lessons beyond our understanding, instilling a yearning for that Sunday morning again.”
Fast forward twelve years, and our family had grown to include two more kids, now thriving in Costa Rica while leaving Lily behind at college. Dropping her off was expected to be tough, especially with that tugging feeling in my belly. But when you’ve said goodbye to your son at a funeral home or left him in a cemetery, any farewell on Earth feels a tad easier. I had begun to write about Samuel and the heart-wrenching loss of his brother, Jacob. Jacob, meaning “Samuel’s dove,” departed during his stillbirth, leaving us again with outstretched arms and his name on our lips—Jacob Emmanuel Hart Williams. For three years, I’d been trying to share the story of our boys, who were with us for such a fleeting yet impactful time. Many days, I’d glance up from my computer, half-expecting to see them toddling toward me. Those moments were precious while their siblings were at school. Us bereaved parents learn to savor what little we have.
One spring, friends visited with their three sons, the oldest being Ethan, who is autistic. Ethan’s parents were Samuel’s godparents, and even though he hadn’t seen Samuel in years, he spent the entire week calling Micah and our youngest, Jack, by Samuel’s name. Hearing that name was like music to my ears, and my sons didn’t mind one bit being called Samuel. As a self-proclaimed word lover, naming my children was one of the greatest joys of pregnancy. I considered each name with care. One of the many ways I miss my boys is the silence where their names once filled the air. As our time with Ethan drew to a close, I told Samuel’s godfather how much I appreciated hearing Samuel’s name so often. He sighed in relief, saying, “I thought that might be hard for you!” It was another reminder of how misunderstood our grief can be.
A few days later, I received a beautiful digital story from a relative titled “The Things That Matter.” In her three minutes to share what was most important in her life, she mentioned how Samuel had taught her daughter to climb stairs before leaving her playmate behind. It was another incredible gift to hear Samuel’s name spoken again.
Today, 16 and 17 years after their passing, I miss my boys every single minute. I will carry their names with me until the end. When people hesitate to say our children’s names, it makes us wonder if they have been forgotten. I want to shout their names to the Universe every morning: “Samuel!” “Jacob!”
For parents like us, these names are indeed the things that matter.
In Summary
The journey of naming and cherishing our children is profound, filled with joy and heartache. It’s crucial to remember the names of those we’ve lost, keeping their memory alive in our hearts and conversations. For more insights into topics like this, check out this resource about family building options and consider utilizing the home insemination kit for your parenting journey.