Fellow rebels,

I have changed since last I wrote.

I assume we all have, but some changes are more profound than others.

You see, today we interred our 4th child.

It was somber, but beautiful.

Uilleann Seber Creech was laid to rest here on our property, on a bed of cedar boughs, covered in a blanket of the blackest, richest earth from our garden.

Digging a grave for your child is not something you envision yourself doing in life, or at least I never did.

And yet today that’s what I did, because I couldn’t imagine for even one second having someone else prepare the space my child would rest in.

When my wife first told me that she thought she might be miscarrying, I was mostly unconcerned. Early in a pregnancy I have always found it hard to connect with our children who have yet to make their appearances in the oxygen-breathing world.

This time was no exception.

After the miscarriage, when asked if I thought we should name the child, my first reaction was tender disinterest - a willingness to do whatever would most serve my wife, but no significant personal connection felt to the event.

A day passed as we made preparations for the burial, and in the intervening time I grew increasingly certain that I had to name my deceased child.

There was a singular thought would not leave my mind: Gnag the Nameless.

I know. Seems weird.

But stay with me.

Gnag is the arch-vilain in the children's story “The Wingfeather Saga.”

It’s basically The Lord of the Rings for kids.

!!!SPOILER ALERT!!! (do not read on if you plan to read the books)

Anyway, Gnag is taken early in childhood and twisted by the lies of an ancient evil to believe himself unloved and unloveable. A lie he accepts as truth which sets him on a self destructive path that also harms the world.

The evil man convinces Gnag he was abandoned by his parents because of his deformity and never given a name.

His self ascribed title is even a reflection of this, one fit to match the ugliness he saw in his own deformed body.

But the redemption comes when at last Gnag finds out the truth.

He was never unloved. He was never abandoned.

He was stolen from his parents, the king and queen.

And most importantly - he had a name.

Davion Wingfeather.

In the story, Davion means “beloved.”

Quite the opposite of the story he was told by his captor.

This may seem silly to you. Trifling even.

How I could find such profound meaning in a children's story.

But I believe in the power or stories.

And what is being communicated in this simple tale is a truth that forms part of the bedrock of our reality.

It pokes directly at the ideas of meaning, purpose, identity, and family.

How many humans have spent a lifetime asking themselves, “Does my father love me? Does he wonder where I am?”

Indeed, even when your dad cannot be present with you…if you know that he wishes he could be, or that he is out there thinking of you and doing what he can for you - no matter how meager, there is a deep comfort in that.

I was stacking firewood outside in the winter sun as the realization hit me.

“I am their father. Their ONLY father.”

I knew in my heart of hearts that if I didn’t name them, they would be nameless.

I couldn’t get the thought out of my head until I felt it escape in familiar warmth on my cheeks.

My tears told me the truth.

I must name my child. In whatever small way I can, I must show them they were wanted and loved and hoped for.

And so we did.

For approximately an hour before they were laid to rest, Uilleann Seber Creech had a name.

As I dug the grave, I took care to make it as even as I could. Each shovel stroke going as deep as the last. The rectangular form as close to proportional beauty as I could make it. The rocks picked away and tossed. Roots pulled. Debris brushed away from the hole.

Looking down at my work, I couldn’t bring myself to lay Uilleann on the cold hard ground. So, as my wife brought the body of our child, I gathered cedar boughs to make the only bed I would ever build for them. It was fragrant and soft, a verdant green any designer would love to have at their disposal.

Wrapped in a blanket of soft cotton, we covered them in a soil so rich it could feed nations. It’s spongey, soft layers the best we could offer our child.

I gently pressed the small mound down with a rock large enough to be a suitable roof for their earthly haven. The edges sealed with the rich clay our part of the US is known for.

We prayed.

I spent a long while sitting there, playing the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard on the Uilleann pipes, and thinking about the nature of this life.

In the last dispatch I wrote, I wondered about what actions could be taken in the fight against evil.

I think I have an answer now.

Do all you can do for your family.

Reach for the heights.

Even if you are of humble means, do the best by them that you can.

For me, today, that meant sealing my child’s resting place with rock and clay from the land the Lord allows me to possess.

And it was my deepest honor.

Thank you, Uilleann.

I love you.

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A Poem for Uilleann to read on the other side:

I know my daddy loves me

Because he chose a special name

To give to me, and just to me

And my fragile, mortal frame

I know my daddy loves me

Because when it was my time

He laid me softly down

In a bed he made all mine

I know my daddy loves me

Because he played my song

As he sat there at my bedside

Gently weeping all along

I know my daddy loves me

For I listened as he prayed

And asked the Lord to hold me

If e’er I was afraid

I know my daddy loves me

And I know my momma too

Will one day get to hold me

In this land that has no tombs

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Warm wishes to you and yours from me and mine this Christmas.

Hold each other close.

And may the One True God bless you in this coming year.

More soon,

John