The answer is probably simple. Whales inhabit our home. Not in a nautical way. If you are picturing a beachy sea shanty - if that is even a thing - you've got the wrong idea. The average visitor to our home might not even notice them, but whales are everywhere. There is a distressed wooden sperm whale in robin's egg blue near the front entry, a plush stuffed humpback in the toy bin, cartoony blue whales on the bath mat, a wooden whale lamp in my bedroom, and Simon and Clara often cuddle two little striped whales I made from Jonah's clothing when he died. When Jonah left us it seemed necessary to remember him symbolically. I can't really explain why. But I have observed the same pattern in other's grief. For my cousin's baby it is an acorn, for another the ruby hues of a sunset, and for Jonah it is whales. When I see these little tokens in my home I think of him, and I'm glad they are there.
When I hear Clara's sweet voice say whale I often wonder how she will know her older brother.
Sometimes in the mornings our babies crawl into our bed under the pretense of cuddling, but really they are interested in access; access to items that are usually unreachable. They step across our heads and pillows to swipe framed photos from our bedside tables.
One photo is of me and Jonah on his first birthday. He's holding a gold mylar balloon and I'm wearing a patchwork apron. Clara often holds this photo and looks at it carefully. First, she points to me "mom" and then the balloon and then Jonah. I say "That's your brother, that's Jonah." Confused, she looks at Simon knowing that he is her brother. I say "Simon is your brother. This is Jonah, he's your brother too." She usually points at Jonah's sweet face and then moves on to the next picture frame. After these brief interactions I wonder how I will ever tell her the rest of the story. "Jonah came first. We loved him so much. He died, in an accident, before you were born." It makes me sad to think that death will always be a part of our family story.
The name Jonah came to me one day while I was sitting in the temple. I was waiting for Jordan to meet me at the entrance, and had been hoping to think of a name for our expectant little boy. I anxiously sat through our temple session, listening to ancestral names, ready to receive inspiration. Yet nothing came. I was frustrated. Jordan and I have struggled to name all of our children, but the first seemed especially daunting. It felt so important, and yet, so arbitrary to name someone before you even know them. But that was our task and we were floundering.
As I waited for Jordan in the quiet of the lobby I picked up the scriptures and began reading from the Old Testament book of Jonah. Honestly, the full story of Jonah as a prophet isn't really that inspiring. He ran from his responsibilities out of fear, judged the conversion of an entire city, and seemed to be a bit pouty at the end. But the part about the whale, that's where Jonah's story becomes remarkable and miraculous.
When Jonah is thrown overboard in hopes that his sacrifice will calm the troubled seas and save those who remain on board he is swallowed by a large fish, perhaps a whale. The scriptures say that the Lord had prepared this fish to swallow Jonah, to hold him for three days and three nights, and to deliver him to the safety and warmth of a new land.
At the time, this story felt so common to me that I didn't think deeply about it. I only felt the name Jonah stick to me. When I suggested the name to Jordan he said it was "too whaley" and then facetiously suggested "Ahab" as an alternative. But time passed and eventually we held a living breathing nameless infant in our arms and when the nurses asked us for the umpteenth time for a name we said "Jonah."
Now, when I think about Simon and Clara, and Jonah's death, and the large fish that the Lord prepared I think about our story, and I wonder how much God knew. Did he know that my own Jonah would be swallowed up by death, in an instant, as I watched helplessly? Did he know that whales would fill our home?
In the last few weeks as Clara's soft voice has reminded me of the whales around me I have wondered if this large blue mammal is not a bit morbid as a symbol of remembrance. After all, in the biblical story of Jonah, the whale is the undertaker, the darkness, and death itself. The prophet Jonah prays diligently to be delivered from its prison, just as I prayed for our child to be delivered from death's reach.
As I've read the story of Jonah again and again my view of these whales has shifted. In the New Testament Jesus taught that the story of Jonah and the Whale is an allegory about the Savior's death and resurrection. This perspective changes the story and the whale becomes about more than death, but deliverance. It is not merely a punishment, but rather a vehicle, prepared by a loving God, to cross to the safety of a distant shore. It is a symbol of our ultimate hope that death is not the end.
As Simon and Clara get older I hope that I can use the whales around our home to teach them about their brother and about the belief we hold close to our hearts that we will see him again, and that God has prepared a way to carry each of us home.
