We've had a list of potential names hanging in our kitchen for a few months along with the most recent sonogram of "Baby Brother," as he’s been affectionately called in our house.
The girls have had some great suggestions since learning about the baby. 5 year-old Ella’s early suggestions were Buttercup for a girl and Mako for a boy. As time went on and we found out it was a boy, her list gained potential: Charlie, Tommy and Noah. Oh and Bobby-Bob-Sampsy-Bob. 3 year-old Rosie’s list has been consistently adorable, but not very reasonable: Sparklet, Ruff-Ruff, and whatever name Ella mentioned last.
John and I thought we had a few more months to narrow in on our favorites, settle on one and start using our choice before meeting Baby Brother. So when the nurse at Hemet hospital brought me the birth certificate paperwork I froze. I had been mulling the the name Henry for a few weeks, and Henry was the name ringing in my heart and head as I begged God to save my son through labor pains.
“Does baby have a name? He needs a name.” I must have heard that 100 times in 48 hours. It was hard to see straight in the flurry of making a thousand other critical decisions. What to eat for lunch seemed as insurmountable as what to tell our girls about their brother. We had seen our little boy's face for only a few moments under very traumatic circumstances. How would we know if a particular name suited him? Tiny tubes, medical equipment, monitors and constant tears have a way of making every baby name seem like the wrong choice.
Hemet Hospital told us we would need his name by 4PM on Monday to file his birth certificate. Before we could find 10 minutes to catch our breath, it was 3:30PM Monday afternoon. The day had been filled with visitors, attending to the baby and meeting with doctors and nurses. It was time to make a decision.
So we took our girls to the cafeteria at Loma Linda, pulled out our lists and began eliminating some choices until we narrowed it down to our favorites. Then we each voted for our first choice. It was unanimous; Jack Henry Martin.
JACK means "God is gracious." Jack was the nickname of his Great Grandpa John Schweikert. He was a strong, determined self-starter who loved the Lord and fought the good fight. Jack is diminutive of John, his Daddy and his Papa’s name. It's a heritage of God’s grace and strength in three generations of men before him.
HENRY means "ruler." Henry was the name of his Great Grandpa Williams; a brave survivor, hard worker and man of God. He survived nearly 4 years as a Japanese P.O.W. during World War II. It's a heritage of steadfast faith and trust in God.
I called Hemet Hospital just a few minutes past the 4PM deadline and told them the name. Jack Henry Martin. A strong name for my strong boy.
