The map went black. The dad of “#CatholicTwitter,” Eric Sammons, posted a map showing that every diocese in the USCCB would suspend the public celebration of the Mass. That feast of St. Joseph turned out to be the last time I would attend a public Mass for two months. It was beyond surreal. Only a Palm Sunday Mass could rival the tears I saw shed that day. I’d wager I was not the only man who succumbed to the intense sorrow of knowing I would not see Jesus for who knew how long.
My family had previously made plans to celebrate that evening with friends over a big meal. Everyone still came, but the nervous energy was thick. When the evening Laphroaig made its appearance, I made two predictions. The first was that the SSPX would gain the attention of the traditional Catholic world. Little did I know how that would play out, but the fact remains you cannot restrict the worship of Jesus from the small percentage of us that believe in the true presence and not expect repercussions. Admittedly, I am not a supporter, but all of us know someone who found valid sacraments from an SSPX priest when they were unavailable elsewhere.
The second prediction was that birthrates would climb this coming January. The entire country suddenly found itself with nowhere to go. You can’t isolate pro-life, God fearing Catholics and expect any other result. Little did I know, my wife and I would suddenly find ourselves contributing to that statistic. The news took us by surprise. The joy was a much-needed break from the chaos that 2020 had unleashed.
That is when the will of God brought us back to a place we had visited once before. This would be our second miscarriage, and it hurt. The subsequent phone calls to family and friends hurt. The return to public Mass brought the joy of seeing Jesus, but also the pain of having to tell the small portion of our parish family who dared to return. The news from our doctor, telling us there may not be a body to lay to rest, hurt. Having decided to attempt a natural birth of our child, the ever-growing list of pains culminated at the revelation that my wife had to remain in “pregnancy” clothes for the foreseeable future. Adding insult to injury, everything around her formed a constant reminder of the pain she must now endure in laboring for a child that had passed.
As a husband, I did everything I could to comfort my wife, knowing I would have time to mourn later. I’m not sure how good that advice is to follow, but it was how I dealt with it. For me it was time to man up and embrace the vows of our marriage so to be there for her and my kids. I went through the motions to tend to the needs of our family as best I could. Then the phone rang. I only stared at the picture on the caller ID as it continued to ring for what felt like an eternity.
The call was from the priest who helped us navigate our first miscarriage. I wasn’t ready for it. It hit me like a ton of bricks. All I could do was respond with a text.
Miscarriage is a loss I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. At the same time, it is something that is, unfortunately, very normal to the traditional Catholic world. Truly, miscarriage impacts all of society. What I mean is that a devotion to God, coupled with an ardent pro-life mentality, often yields large families. We frequently find these same large families experience the cruel reality of a miscarriage merely by a wager of the “odds”, so-to-speak. The Mayo clinic suggests the rate to be between ten and twenty percent. Count the next five children you see at Mass and realize there is a sixth not present.
As the title of the article suggests, this is obviously from the perspective of a male. I cannot even begin to understand how much worse this is on my wife, or any other woman for that matter. All I can do is offer words that someone once offered to me. To all the fathers out there who have been through this, welcome to the worst club on Earth.
While I am sure there is a patron saint for all of this, and we all know there is a special one dedicated just for my fellow Irishmen: I always turn to Our Lady who knows all too well the pain of losing a child. Atop my desk sits a small statue of her called the Mother of the Unborn from the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in LaCrosse, WI.
To my fellow club members, know this, your closest friends will be at a loss for words, the pain is real, time helps, and, most importantly, the sacraments heal. Never forget, Jesus was crucified because He dared to call God Father (Gospel of St. John 5:18). While it took me a few rides on the emotional roller coaster to accept this, ultimately Our Father gifted us with knowing all too well how much pain He was in when He lost His Son on Good Friday.
Finally, know this: I will ardently pray for you. And at least twice a year, a glass of expensive scotch will be lifted in your honor.
✠
Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash
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