FAD&DAD

by Joshua Burks

I’ll be transparent from the start: this won’t have much to do with the content of FAD&DAD. But the Lord has placed a deep desire in me to turn recent life experience into writing and this seems like the most fitting outlet to do so. Thanks for taking the time to read through this one-off.

If anything, a relation to the podcast comes as a follow up to what was recently announced at the beginning of episode 20, that my wife and I recently suffered the loss of our fourth child through miscarriage (why I was absent for the episode previous). It was a journey that endured over several months; it was one that led us through depths of pain and also healing that I had never quite experienced before until now.

The topic itself—miscarriage—is not one is that often broached. We’re thankful that our circle of family, friends, and fellow parishioners are ones where the door is far more open for dialogue than in common secular circles. This is my attempt to share a bit more about that journey from the perspective of faith, and to also open the door a bit more on a topic that could use more TLC in the world.

What I wanted was a child, but all I got was a box.

While throughout the Advent and Christmas seasons, many well known and cherished refrains dance around in our heads (“O come, o come, Emmanuel; “Glory-ooo-oo-o-o-ooo-oo-oooooooo-ria!”)—I only had one refrain going round and round in my head throughout Christmas week: “what I wanted was a child, but all I got was a box.” There was no joyful melody with it, just a carousel of a whisper that carried the thought. Allow me to explain, briefly, how we got there.

Mid-November I had the chance to go to a basketball game with a close friend of mine. Beer and snacks were had, our team won, all was well in the world, until I came home to a wife laden with tears, telling me that we had just miscarried.

It took awhile for the gravity of that moment to kick in. Throughout our marriage, we had always known that miscarriage was a possibility. We had already been blessed with three children, and although we were trying and ready to receive another child from the Lord, I was also content if the Lord just maybe wanted to take his sweet jolly time before making—yes, our hearts fuller—but also our house all the noisier and messier. I remember actually making the statement (given that we already had a growing family): “if we ever have a miscarriage, I know I’ll be sad, but I don’t think I’ll be that sad, you know?” Boy was I wrong.

Time went on and reality kicked in a bit more each day. As a father, I was slowly wading into the grief of losing a child that I couldn’t meet. What always seemed more pertinent was that, as a husband, I was hyper-concerned with tending to my wife’s emotional journey, let alone her physical one.

Fast-forward some weeks and many doctor visits for blood draws, we learned that Liz’s HCG levels were still mysteriously rising, although we had confirmed that there was no baby present in her uterus. After weeks of tracking, it came to a head after Thanksgiving when she experienced an episode of severe abdominal pain, lasting day and night, leading us to the ER the following morning, where we would learn that the baby was indeed present, just in the wrong place.

Our baby had implanted in the fallopian tube—known better as an ectopic pregnancy. The baby was growing in a place with no room to grow, and the result was Liz’s tube rupturing inside her body, leading to internal bleeding and an emergency surgery. Faith becomes much more tangible of a gift whenever your spouse is rushed onto an operating table. We are thankful that the hand of the Lord guided that process to go as smoothly as it could have.

But, at the cost of saving one life was the life of another. My wife’s daily breath required that the our misplaced child be removed and consequently see the end of his short journey in this world.

“He who laughs”

Some days after, with the encouragement and testimony received from running into an old friend (you know who you are—thank you), we began to consider a name for this child. It was next day’s Sunday Mass where it became apparent in prayer that Isaac would be the child’s name.

We weren’t terribly concerned with the name matching the gender. This child, regardless of being a boy or girl, is now given an identity that carries a significant meaning with it: the beloved child that is offered to God in faith. The name “Isaac” is Hebrew, meaning “he who laughs.” More on that later.

Choosing a name was important for us. First, as mentioned before, it gave this child, this person, an identity. It was tempting to leave the baby nameless—it would have (on the surface) made the grieving easier if I treated it like something less than the loss of a human child. But in a world where pre-born babies are rarely recognized for their unique identities, we felt compelled to stand against that tide.

Second, naming a child is one of the few lasting impacts that I, as a parent, have on eternity. God gave Adam the authority to name the animals: “And whatever the man called every living creature, that was its name” (Gen 2:19). Mothers and fathers receive this great gift of naming their children, something they will only get to do a handful of times in life, if that. Once they assign that name to their child, that is his or her name. That is the name that God will call them forever. I was named Joshua and I will always be called that. This child that we were given, even if only for a brief time, was waiting by Jesus’ side for his parents to give him a name—we were the only people that had the right to do so.

So Isaac it was. He is our child, offered back to God in faith, and will forever be a sign of true life in Christ, just as the biblical Isaac was a type of, and just as our Isaac now enjoys in heaven.

Giving him back to the Lord, though, was a lot easier in theory than in practice.

Coming Home and God’s Providence

I have nothing but praise for our local Catholic hospital that we went to that day. While also caring for my wife, they also cared for my child by preserving his remains and giving us the opportunity to bury him. How we did so can only be explained by Providence.

The hospital offered to either bury Isaac for free some months down the road, as they do every year with all miscarried remains they keep. They also offered us the chance to take his remains with us for a private burial. Like all things, that would cost money, though—money that wasn’t just ‘sitting around,’ we could say.

Happening at the same time was the story of a coworker of my mother-in-law who happened to hear our story, and who also happened to have a gift card to our local Catholic cemetery that would expire at the end of that very month. Please, I implore you to laugh and recognize with me the irony of (1) someone possessing a gifted certificate to a cemetery, while (2) expiring a few short weeks later and needing to be used. So it is:

"every mountain and hill be made low;
the uneven ground shall become level,
    and the rough places a plain.
And the glory of the LORD shall be revealed" (Isaiah 40:4-5)

As Providence has it, this couple was so moved to give us this gift certificate, and it was just enough to cover all of the burial expenses. Thanks be to God.

We were therefore able to organize these events accordingly, and in the days preceding Christmas and awaiting his burial, Isaac’s remains came to us in a specially prepared box and remained with us throughout Christmas week.

It was a Christmas to be remembered. In some ways, one might want to forget it to spare the pain, but Christmas 2023 will always be one of significant memory and meaning to our household. With us was our son. Also with us was a traveling Pilgrim statue of Our Lady of Fatima which I had signed up to have months before all of this. On our mantle, next to Christmas stockings and under our Lady’s care, laid the remains of our sixth family member.

Our boys were in this journey with us from the very start. They know Isaac like a brother (his brothers they surely are). Our evening family rosaries that week carried a bittersweetness with it as one of us would gently hold “baby Isaac” while we entrusted ourselves to our Lord and Lady in prayer. It is perhaps not a comforting or pleasurable image to conceive of to the outsider, but I assure you it was the most tender and beautiful of moments that our family has perhaps ever had.

It was this week of having Isaac in our house in a special way that brought the most pain with it—for me, at least. As I have mentioned, up until then, although I was certainly grieving the loss of a miscarried child, I had plenty of reasons to distract myself. Most important of all was the physical and emotional toll this took on my wife. Her pain was immediate before my eyes every day and it was easy for that to take priority. In addition to this, my three living children still needed their dad, and life otherwise never stops.

It wasn’t until I held my son’s remains that I was forced to reconcile with the pain that was bottling up inside of me like a cancer. At first it was numbing—and I mean numbing. Liz had to single-parent the rest of that day. I reckon I’ll be unpacking that event for quite some time, yet.

Numbness evolved into other forms of grieving, both high and low. Many tears were shed (and while I’m completely fine with ‘feeling your feels,’ boy do I hate the physiological effects of crying. Why does crying make your face feel like it’s going to explode? These are some of the questions I also distracted myself with).

I think what was most important in all of this is that Liz and I allowed ourselves to experience the loss of a child, in all its beautiful and ugly ways. Surely, losing one of our living and aged children today would express itself in different and yet deeper ways, but that shouldn’t wash away the pain of losing any child, however old. Loss is loss. Grief is grief. It doesn’t come in a tidy package.

Isaac’s Funeral

Isaac’s funeral Mass and burial was on December 28, 2023, the Feast of the Holy Innocents (i.e., the male children slaughtered by King Herod upon the birth of Christ, see Matt 2:16-18). The Gospel reading followed suit:

“A voice was heard in Ramah, 
weeping and loud lamentation, 
Rachel weeping for her children;
she refused to be comforted, because they are no more.” 
(Matt 2:18; Jer 31:15)

A priest friend celebrated that Mass for us. He was a mouthpiece of the Holy Spirit. He preached about the theme of Isaac in the Bible—the significance of the story and how fitting it was in this scenario. He tactfully joined Isaac to the sacrifice of the Holy Innocents.

He also preached on Isaac’s name: “he who laughs.” He told us that Isaac indeed laughs now. He laughs and shares in the joy of the beatific life with Jesus. He knows us and prays for us.

And while we do not laugh with him now, one day we will laugh with him when we are reunited. Jesus, Isaac, and we along with them, await that day when we can all laugh together, face to face.

A few closing words.

I am filled with a heart of gratitude that we got to experience this loss and journey as a couple and as a family. I realize it seems a bit paradoxical to be gracious for such an event, but I trust in the goodness of Jesus—in his promise to accompany those in trial and remain with us in times of need (Ps 34:18; Prov 3:11-12; Matt 5:4; Jas 1:12 to name a few).

I also firmly trust that he would only grant us such a trial so to invite us to draw closer to himself—to the God who did offer his beloved Son and use it as the means by which all men would be saved.

It isn’t lost on me that not every couple who loses a child via miscarriage gets to have the same experiences that we did (e.g., have a funeral Mass and burial). While I appreciate the opportunity, I do not ascribe our loss only to the fact of having our child’s remains and/or getting to have a special burial.

If you or a loved one have suffered a similar loss, it is your loss; it is not something to be compared to the losses of others. As a good friend once told me, “comparison is the thief of joy.” Grieve your loss, share your pain with others, but never compare them. That’s not what Jesus desires from you.

Moving forward will be an interesting journey. We remain open to the gift of life, but we approach it with new emotions now. It’s easy to think this will be the only time that something like this will happen: a “phew, got that over with” mentality. Nothing in me longs to go through this again. But! (says my mind), how will we mourn like that again? Will we get to have the same opportunities for closure? What will we name them?

I’m human, and for some reason these are the questions that try and pester me every day. But I realize these aren’t the questions for me to answer today, or ever, God-willing. Today, I only need to respond to the graces that are being given now.

Thanks for sharing in our story. Thank you to our friends and family who supported us in prayer, words of comfort, and actions throughout that time. I’m thankful for places like my work and for FAD&DAD where I can share what the daily walk of faith looks like, even when it’s difficult and messy.

Isaac and his loss will be forever a part of our family. I hope that by writing our our story, that others will be given the strength to face their losses in new and greater ways. Whatever that way is, do it with Jesus.

Isaac Burks, pray for us.