In Memoriam: Specialist Matthew Serpa

I met Matthew Serpa several years ago, wondering how a kid so young could already be in the Army (he went to Basic Training straight out of high school). He was reserved, and at times, a bit socially awkward. He was also clever, and put a richly intellectual mind to good use.

Our talk was generally superficial until the summer of 2012, when our unit went out to the arid terrain of Ft. Hunter-Liggett, California to conduct three weeks of training. Late at night, I would visit the soldiers manning the overnight shift at our Tactical Operations Center (TOC). It was there that my relationship with "Serpa" deepened.

He was always intellectually inquisitive and had plenty of questions and challenges for me regarding the Christian faith, but he showed me that night that he had a more tender side. I learned about the car accident that killed some of his family when he was younger, and the family that graciously took him in.

As always, there is much more to a person than what meets the eye.

When we deployed together, first to Fort Hood, he would often have questions for me of a religious or philosophical nature. He may have been the "baby" in the unit, but he asked many of the most sophisticated questions.

I visited him twice in northern Afghanistan, and I learned more about his love for computer gaming and the entrepreneurial spirit with which he literally profited from his love. He was determined to be a millionaire by age 30, and with his intellect and ambition, he was not to be underestimated. I also learned that he could take down an entire pizza and still be hungry.

It was my visits to Serpa and two other soldiers that led to my providential encounter with CPT Dave Lyon, who was later killed by a VBIED.

We came home together, along with about 30 other soldiers. On the day we left Ft. Hood to finally come home, Serpa and I spent time together at the airport. Three of us boarded the same flight and enjoyed first class for the first time in our lives. It was a far cry from our grimy existence downrange.

When we got to Dulles, I learned that Serpa was taking a taxi back to Arlington. I was incredulous. Coming home from deployment and no one to pick him up? In my head, I was thinking up ways to tell my wife and my mom that we needed to drive an hour out of the way to drop off another soldier. But then he told me that he preferred to take a taxi--he wanted the time alone.

This past Saturday, he Facebook messaged me and told me he wanted to talk and asked for my number. I replied soon after, gave him my number, and told him I would love to talk, but he never called. If I had known it was urgent, I would've researched and found his number and reached out to him--even driven to wherever he was living in New York if it would've made a difference. He was my soldier.

But alas, when I received the call on Thursday: "We lost a soldier," a part of me knew that it was Serpa before it was even said. I wish he had called.

I could easily decry the rate of suicides in the Army and society in general and exhort those who might listen to be more attentive to the warning signs. But as one who has done this countless times on behalf of the Army, I know this moment means more than another speech.

There may be 22 soldiers who commit suicide each day, but there was only one Serpa.

There will be a reunion of dozens of soldiers with whom I share an unspeakable bond on Monday. A reunion that will be under the worst of circumstances: We will be saying goodbye to our battle buddy. He will be missed terribly.

I find comfort in my Savior, who allows me to grieve as one with hope (Rev. 7:17). Such a hellish tragedy cries out for such a heavenly hope.