It Should Have Been Me

"I'm not supposed to be here," I blurted out late one night to my wife.

"What do you mean?" she asked, obviously confused.

I tried to explain the feelings that I can barely put my finger on. Soldiers often feel out of place when they come home. I was certainly feeling that. And, no, it's not because we don't want to be home, but there is a sense of forever being caught between two worlds after a deployment.

I feel like those characters on LOST, who, once they returned to society, realized that they should have never left the island. They weren't meant to come home.

Again, all normal soldier feelings. We have lived in another world and can't figure out which one is reality and which one is the illusion.

But death heightens this disconnect and cements it as a semi-permanent feature of life with mingled grief and guilt.

Words were hard for me. It's hard for me to talk and show grief, but it's also hard for me not to talk and show grief.

I finally choked out, "It should have been me, not Dave."

I watched the tail end of We Were Soldiers last night and felt an immediate connection to Mel Gibson's character--the commander--at the end of the movie. He told his reporter friend who survived the battle that he would never forgive himself. When the reported asked him why, he said with tear-strewn face "Because...because my men died and I didn't."

It may seem morbid, but I kind of expected to die in Afghanistan.

When my wife and son seemed to be in grave danger a year and a half ago, I prayed fervently that the Lord would take me instead of them. It wasn't long after my wife was finally healed up that I was given the surprise notice that I would deploy. Four weeks after my little boy was born, I left home, presuming upon God's providence and figuring that my prayers were answered. I would not be coming home. And that was okay. My wife and baby were safe.

I said a number of final "goodbyes" in my heart before I left--to my tough childhood years, summer breezes and mowed grass, college antics and seminary graces, a wife who I enjoyed my best years with, and a little baby boy who would also be a symbol of hope and life amidst death.

My heart was filled with as much gratitude as grief when I left. Even during times of great struggle out there, my heart was still filled with gratitude. Each time I got on a convoy and went outside the wire, I prayed for our team, reflected with gratitude upon my full life, and prepared myself.

I have enjoyed a full life. People desperately cling to life, holding it like a mouse in hand a la Lenny from Of Mice and Men until it is crushed. God had brought me through so very much. When the truth of Christ broke upon my heart like a thunderstorm upon the desert, it changed everything. Life on earth was no longer the whole picture--just a broken glimpse of the greater picture. That would have been enough, but the Lord also gave me a beloved wife and the baby of my dreams.

I was ready to die. Dave wasn't.

He was just 27 and had barely begun to taste the goodness of the Lord in this life. He would go home, Dana would leave the service, and together they would plant a family and watch it grow.

I have always joked about being an old man, but even at 31, the jokes belie the reality. I have a youthful personality, but an old soul.

If I had died at 31, my wife would have grieved tremendously and my boy would've had a better example in death than in life, but would also miss the life he would never share with his daddy. At least I would've had a boy who missed me--an opportunity Dave and Dana will never have.

I know Dave doesn't regret what happened, and it's not because he's dead. He's not dead. He is enjoying the God of glory--the mystery of His providence that would have Dave somehow spend his last few days on this earth in Afghanistan with his wife by his side. And then, in a flash, His greatest earthly joy was supplanted by His greatest heavenly joy and the Savior's welcome.

And here I am, left to sort out a life I barely recognize--that I didn't really think I would return to. I am home, but I have never felt my pilgrim status more than now. Like a fellow pastor--a Vietnam vet--told me, the memories never leave. You never fully come home. And guilt would be the dominating feature if it wasn't swallowed up in the tender love and grace of Christ.

So I will bear the scars, even if not on my body. I'll grieve those we've lost and a world that will continue to squeeze the heart like a sponge until it goes dry, and look with hope to the Day when the river of life and healing flows unabated. Until that Day, may the Lord grant that I would be a more faithful husband, father, and minister of the Gospel than I would be without the scars, looking to Him whose scars brought healing and peace.