I chose to name my son Noah because the name conjured beautiful imagery. I envisioned an ark filled with pairs of every animal, swaying gently in harmony, crafted from the hands of devoted carpenters. The concept of a new beginning resonated deeply with me, especially with the Earth enveloped in water—a comforting thought for someone who has always found solace by the sea. The image of the ancient Noah standing proudly at the helm of his vessel, reaching out to welcome symbols of peace—a dove and the olive branch it carried—was also compelling. There was something profound about naming my son after such an iconic figure, one selected by God.
The day Noah was born, the clouds parted after a torrential rain that lasted 40 days and nights, a fitting backdrop for his arrival in Oregon. He had a tuft of reddish-blonde hair and an expression that radiated tranquility. Noah was the first of my children to meet my gaze with a curiosity mirrored in his bright blue eyes. He was cradled in the loving arms of his sister, Lily, who was seven, while his little sister, Mia, aged four, watched with adoration. His brother, Ethan, just three years old, was completely captivated, intrigued by every sound and movement Noah made. We chose the name Noah Patrick, honoring his father’s middle name, and added our family name, Moore, creating Noah Patrick Moore Kittel. “Noah Moore,” some joked, but the humor faded quickly.
Tragedy soon darkened our joy, and Noah was not with us for long. At his funeral, I read these words: “Noah. He was ours for one long and beautiful weekend. He entered our lives on a Friday night, a response to our deepest prayers, arriving early Saturday morning while the world slept. We were aware of his wonder before dawn, while others merely dreamt of such joy. As Saturday progressed, he became a part of our very being. We marveled at his appetite, watched him sleep lovingly, laughed as we fed him, and celebrated his milestones. By Saturday night, he was forever entwined in our hearts. He had eight teeth and an infectious smile, clapping proudly as he took his first steps, enthusiastically pointing to everything around him, and relishing his first taste of ice cream.
Sunday morning came, and we envisioned our family as a unit of six. Noah was integral to our existence, filling our home with laughter and memories. We began the day with his sounds, overflowing with love. We acknowledged our blessings and cherished the beauty of our family. And then, by Sunday afternoon, he departed, leaving us with an emptiness that could never be filled. He arrived last but left first, leading us into the depths of understanding. We imparted our knowledge to him, yet he taught us more than we could grasp. The lessons he provided were priceless, and we will forever hold onto the memory of that weekend.
Fast forward twelve years; we welcomed two more children into our family and moved to Costa Rica, leaving Lily behind in college. Parting with her was anticipated to be a struggle, but having previously said goodbye to a son at a funeral home cast a long shadow over any goodbye. I had started chronicling the narratives of Noah and his brother, Jonah—who, named for “Noah’s dove,” left us during his stillbirth—leaving us once again with our arms outstretched and his name on our lips: Jonah Emmanuel Moore Kittel. For three years, I endeavored to document the moments spent with my sons, who were with us for such a brief yet impactful time. Often, I would glance up from my writing, almost expecting to see them toddling toward me; those precious moments while their siblings were at school were pure magic.
One spring, friends visited with their three boys, the eldest, Alex, having autism. Alex’s parents were Noah’s godparents, and though he hadn’t seen Noah in years, he spent the week calling my other sons, Ethan and our youngest, Leo, “Noah.” Each time I heard that name, it was music to my ears, and my sons embraced the nickname. For me, as someone who adores words, naming my children was an exhilarating part of pregnancy, a process I approached with great care. The silence where their names once lived is one of the many things I miss. At the end of the week, I expressed to Noah’s godfather how much I appreciated hearing Noah’s name repeatedly. He sighed in relief, thinking it would be painful for me, reminding me of how misunderstood our grief can be.
Days later, a relative shared a digital story titled “What Matters.” In the short segment, she recounted how Noah had taught her daughter to climb stairs before he left. This revelation was another cherished gift, allowing me to hear Noah’s name once again. Even now, 16 and 17 years after their passing, I feel the absence of my sons every moment of my life. Their names will forever be on my lips. When others hesitate to speak their names, it leaves us wondering if they have been forgotten. Every morning, I long to proclaim their names to the universe—“Noah!” “Jonah!” For bereaved parents, these are the moments that truly matter.
For those navigating the complexities of parenthood, especially through loss, resources like this article on donor insemination offer valuable insights. And for those considering alternative paths to parenthood, you might explore this at-home insemination kit or consider a fertility booster for men to enhance your journey.
In summary, the journey of naming and cherishing our children transcends time and loss, creating a legacy that lives on through the memories and the love we continue to share.
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