A Name That Stayed

We welcomed a new member into our family this week, and with our new son came a name that carries far more meaning than I ever expected it to.

Joshua Ethan.

What began as a joke slowly became something sacred.

Years ago, during a public moment meant to celebrate one of our children, my husband was accidentally introduced by the wrong name. Instead of “Zach,” he was introduced as “Joshua.” It was a simple mistake—harmless, awkward, and unintentionally funny—but it stuck.

We laughed it off. The apologies came. And then, because humor has a way of lingering, the name did too.

“If we ever have a son,” we’d say, “maybe we’ll just name him Joshua.”

At the time, the idea felt abstract. Distant. Almost hypothetical.

But then life unfolded in ways I couldn’t have planned.

As I began to learn more about the meaning of the name—God is deliverance—it stopped feeling like a joke altogether. It felt like a quiet summary of a long road behind us. After years of infertility, loss, and waiting, this pregnancy has carried a sense of provision and mercy that’s hard to put into words.

The name stayed.

Not because it was clever.
Not because it made a good story.
But because it held weight.

And then there was his middle name.

Years earlier, during our adoption journey, we were briefly matched with a baby boy. We had already chosen his name before that match was disrupted. The loss was real, even if it was short-lived, and the name stayed tucked away—unused, but not forgotten.

Giving our son that middle name isn’t about replacing what was lost. It’s about honoring the full story. About acknowledging that growth, for us, has never been linear. That joy and grief have often shared the same ground.

Looking at him now, I’m struck by how often meaning arrives quietly.

Through a mistake.
Through humor.
Through a name that grows heavier with time.

I love that God can work through the ordinary and the imperfect—through jokes, missteps, and long seasons of waiting—to reveal faithfulness that only makes sense in hindsight.

Names, like stories, don’t always start with intention.
Sometimes they become meaningful simply because of where they’ve been.

And this one has been a long time coming.