"Chaplain," a soldier choked out this morning, "Can we talk?"
I had just arrived at my office and was setting my belongings down. I welcomed this soldier in and we closed the door.
"I knew the US soldier who was killed yesterday."
He had just learned that the soldier was a buddy of his who went through training with him and served alongside of him for several years in the States. I asked him about what was going through his mind--grief, anger?
"Disbelief," he said over and over again, holding his head in his hands.
He told me more about this soldier--where he grew up, the type of work they did together in the States. This soldier did the same type of work that our unit does out here--training and advising. But that's not what killed him.
He was actually stationed in the north, but had come south for Christmas because his young wife served here on our post. For him, like so many of us, there was nothing he wanted more for Christmas than to be with his family. Unlike many of us, he had the opportunity to do so. And while he made plans to be with the one he loves the most, the Taliban made plans to crash a VBIED into one our vehicles, caring nothing for the plans of the people inside.
The attack was only a half-mile away and most news reports refer to our post in describing the location of the attack (http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/28/world/asia/coalition-soldiers-killed-in-attack-on-convoy-in-kabul.html). Surely, this soldier's wife, like most of the soldiers here, felt the blast shake the ground and walls--the blast that took her husband.
I planned to pray with this grieving soldier, but was waiting to give him time to say anything that came to mind. After a few moments of silence, he asked "Chaplain, can you pray with me?"
We prayed for the deceased soldier's wife and his family, for the families of the other two soldiers killed in the attack, and for the soldier before me. We prayed for the hope that comes in the cross, knowing that nothing else can give hope in a time like this.
After we prayed in Jesus' name, I looked up and saw soft tears streaking down this soldier's face, each one seeming to scream in the silence.
"I just don't know what to say," the soldier told me with halting breath. I told him that there are times when no words will do justice to the tragedy or the pain. Just tears.
The time for words has ceased. Now, we must await the bugle.
http://icasualties.org/OEF/Fatalities.aspx
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