A Fatherhood Story Forged Through War, Love, and a New Name

Back in 2005, when my son Justin was deployed to Iraq, the world was a very different place. We lived out in the country, and dial‑up was the only way to get online. There were no smartphones, no video calls, no Facebook Live — just the long, familiar screech of the modem connecting and the hope that the line would hold. Yahoo Messenger was the lifeline of that time, simple enough to work on slow connections and reliable enough for soldiers overseas to reach home.
The Army had begun setting up small computer stations in Iraq so soldiers could contact their families. Most of them used Yahoo Messenger, and at home we kept our computer connected around the clock, the screen glowing softly in the dark. We left Yahoo Messenger open all night, listening for that little “door knock” sound that meant someone had logged on.
It wasn’t just for Justin. We watched out for the other boys he served with, too. When we heard that knock, we’d jump up, check the screen, and call the parents of whichever soldier it was so they wouldn’t miss their chance to talk to their child. Those late‑night calls became a lifeline — a small network of families holding each other up during a season of fear, pride, and constant prayer.
One month, the internet company called to tell us we were exceeding our allotted dial‑up time and would be charged extra. When we explained why the computer stayed connected — that we were waiting for soldiers in Iraq to reach their families — they didn’t argue. They simply told us not to worry about it and left us alone. Even they understood that some things mattered more than minutes on a bill.
Those nights were long, quiet, and full of hope. Every login was a blessing. Every message was proof that someone’s son was safe enough to type a few words. Looking back, it wasn’t just technology connecting us — it was love, community, and the determination of families doing everything they could to stay close to their children half a world away.
Those years were hard for Brenda and me. Justin and his brother Russell aren’t my biological children. They became part of my life when I married Brenda, and like many blended families, those early years weren’t always easy. Step‑kids don’t always get the fairest treatment, and I can admit now that my own daughters sometimes got the better end of things. I loved those boys, but I didn’t always know how to show it. We were all learning each other, all trying to build something that didn’t come with a manual.
But everything shifted the year Justin went to Iraq. Suddenly, the labels — “step,” “half,” “mine,” “hers” — didn’t matter anymore. He was our soldier. Our boy. And every night we left that computer connected, listening for that little knock that meant he was safe enough to type a few words. We prayed for him. We watched for him. We waited for him. And we did the same for the other soldiers he served with.
When Justin finally came home, he was only about a month away from being released from the Army. One afternoon he came to me, quiet and serious, and said something I will never forget. He told me he was getting out, that he’d probably start dating, get married, have kids someday — and he didn’t want his children to carry his birth last name. He and Russell had no relationship with their biological father, and he didn’t want that name passed on.
Then he asked if he could take my last name.
I told him the decision had to include his brother. “Talk to Russell,” I said. “If he agrees, we’ll make it happen.” A little while later, Justin came back and told me Russell felt the same way. They both wanted to carry the name of the man who had raised them, watched over them, and stood in the gap during the hardest years of their lives.
At the time, I was working as a Deputy Sheriff, serving as the bailiff for the District Court. I knew the legal system well, and I was friends with the District Judge. I went to his chambers, sat down with him, and explained what the boys wanted. Without hesitation, he told me he’d help guide me through the process.
I walked down to the District Clerk’s office, picked up the necessary paperwork, and brought it home. Sitting at the table, I drafted the legal documents myself — line by line, signature by signature — preparing everything needed to give Justin and Russell the name they had chosen.
A few weeks before Justin was officially released from the Army, he came home on a Friday afternoon and met Russell at the courthouse. I had already prepared every piece of paperwork they needed and walked them through what to say. They walked into that courtroom as Burman, the name they had carried since birth. They stood before the Judge — two young men who had weathered more than most their age — and spoke clearly and confidently about the name they wanted to carry for the rest of their lives.
And when they walked out of that courtroom, they walked out as Girsh.
Justin went back to the Army for his final month of service still wearing a uniform stitched with the name Burman, even though, legally, he was now Justin Girsh. He finished his time in the military carrying the old name on his chest and the new name in his heart — a name he had claimed, not inherited.
Brenda was thrilled. All of Justin’s children — Cayden and Addysen Girsh — now carry the name Girsh, and all three of Russell’s boys — Jaxon, Camden, and Cooper — carry it too. And not to forget about the girls — Tiffany and Stephanie fit into that picture as well — and our youngest, Stephen L. Girsh, Jr., who completed our family tree. There is something magical about your kids being proud of their last name, and just as special when the youngest carries your name as Junior. For about six months, all our kids had the same last name. It was the first time our blended family felt completely unified under one banner. Then our oldest daughter, Tiffany, went and got married and “messed that up,” as I like to joke. But even with the name change, she was still part of the same family story, the same love, the same home.
And then there was our youngest — born in January of 1994, the child we never expected but the one who made the family complete. He arrived after the storms, after the learning curves, after the rough edges had begun to soften. He grew up in a home that had already been shaped by struggle, forgiveness, and second chances. In many ways, he was the bridge — the reminder that families aren’t defined by how they begin, but by how they grow. His presence pulled all the pieces together, giving our blended family a sense of wholeness we didn’t even realize we were missing.
A name that once belonged only to me became the banner over an entire branch of our family tree.
It was one of the proudest days of my life. After years of feeling like I hadn’t always gotten it right as a stepfather, after the uneven beginnings and the times I wished I’d been better, I never saw them as stepchildren again.
They were my sons.
They were my daughters.
They were my family.
They were mine in every way that mattered.
And seeing their children grow up with the name Girsh — a name chosen out of love rather than biology — reminds me every day that family is built not just by blood, but by commitment, sacrifice, and the quiet, steady love that carries you through the hardest seasons.

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Pastor Stephen L Girsh, Sr