When my son was born, I chose the name Noah. It was a name filled with vivid imagery. I pictured all the creatures of the earth peacefully nestled side by side in an ark, each pair lovingly crafted from sturdy gopher wood. The concept of a fresh beginning spoke to me, especially living my life surrounded by salt water. I could envision the ancient Noah at the helm of his ark, reaching out to grasp the symbols of peace—the dove and the olive branch it clutched. So, why not name my son after God’s chosen one?
Noah’s birthday was marked by a break in the rain after 40 days and nights of downpour—a classic Oregon welcome! With his reddish-blonde hair and serene expression, he was the first of my children to look back at me with a curious gaze that mirrored my own blue eyes. He was cradled in the excited arms of his seven-year-old sister, Lily, while his capable four-year-old sister, Christiana, was right there, along with his three-year-old brother, Micah, who was utterly enchanted by every sound and movement of his new sibling. We named him Noah Patrick, incorporating his dad’s middle name, followed by Noah Patrick Jones, including my maiden name, and finally, Noah Patrick Jones-Smith, with my husband’s last name. “Noah Jones” had a quirky ring to it, but it was a name we embraced.
But our joy was short-lived. Just 15 months later, we faced the heart-wrenching reality of loss. At his funeral, I read a piece that captured our fleeting time together. “Noah. He was ours for one long, sweet weekend. He entered our world on a Friday night, a prayer answered on a Saturday morning while the world still slept. We felt his wonder before dawn, while others only dreamed of miracles. As Saturday unfurled, he became a part of us. We witnessed his little quirks—his hunger, the way he slept, the joy in our laughter, and the pride in his first wobbly steps. By Saturday night, he was woven into our very essence, leaving us forever changed.”
As Sunday dawned, we envisioned our family of six, forever altered by Noah’s presence. We played and created memories, and our hearts overflowed with gratitude for our beautiful little family. But by Sunday afternoon, our precious time was over, and we were left to grapple with the void. Noah, the last to arrive but the first to depart, taught us lessons beyond words. His gifts were profound, and we cherished every fleeting moment.
Fast forward twelve years, and our family had grown to include two more children, and we found ourselves in the sunny embrace of Costa Rica—though we had to leave Lily behind at college. Dropping her off was hard, but after saying goodbye to Noah, any farewell felt a little easier. I had also begun writing about Noah and the loss of his brother, Jonah, whose name means “Noah’s dove.” Jonah flew away during his stillbirth, leaving us with empty arms and his name echoing in our hearts—Jonah Emmanuel Jones-Smith. For three long years, I attempted to capture the essence of their brief yet impactful lives. I often caught myself glancing up, expecting to see them running toward me—those magical moments when their siblings were at school.
One spring, friends visited with their three boys, one of whom, Adam, is autistic. Adam’s parents had been Noah’s Godparents, and despite the time that had passed, he spent the week calling my sons, Micah and our youngest, Isaiah, by Noah’s name. Hearing that name was music to my ears, and my sons didn’t mind one bit. As a lover of words, naming my children was one of the greatest joys of pregnancy, and I often found myself missing the sound of their names. As our time with Adam drew to a close, I mentioned to Noah’s Godfather how much I cherished hearing Noah’s name again. He was relieved, thinking it might be painful for me—a perfect reminder of how little people understand the complexities of grief.
Days later, I received a touching digital story from a relative titled “The Things That Matter.” In it, she shared how Noah had taught her daughter to climb stairs before he left his playmate. It was another beautiful reminder of our son’s impact.
Even now, 16 and 17 years after their passing, I feel their absence every moment. Their names remain on my lips. When people hesitate to speak their names, it makes me wonder if they’ve been forgotten. Each morning, I want to shout their names to the Universe: “Noah!” “Jonah!” For grieving parents, these are what truly matter.
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Summary
This heartfelt reflection on the life and loss of Noah highlights the beauty and pain of parenting, the significance of names, and the enduring impact of brief but meaningful moments. It serves as a reminder to cherish every second with our loved ones and the importance of keeping their memories alive.