Remembering a Husband (and a Hero)

I must confess that these last several days have been trying for my family.

On Friday night, our little boy puked on me during what was supposed to be our first night out in quite a while. After we went home and I showered and changed, he puked on me again. Physically and emotionally, he was a mess throughout Saturday. On Sunday, he let up just enough so that I could preach in the evening (he tends to up his game for Sundays and social time).

On Monday, Lindsey awoke to find our boy awash in his own vomit in the crib. His giant monkey was one of the casualties, and he (the monkey) is now facing an uncertain future at Monkey Hospital (the dry cleaners). Lindsey took him to the doctors and he was diagnosed with a virus (our boy, not the monkey).

Aside from my normal sermon prep and pastoral visitation times, these past couple of days were also supposed to be spent preparing for a ship-naming ceremony today in honor of CPT David Lyon, killed in Afghanistan just over a year ago. Instead, Lindsey and I, both feeling elements of our boy's virus, both spent the last couple of days caring for him with what little strength we had. We gratefully received help from several members of our church family, which included groceries and meals. A neighbor friend also brought us some helpful items for our boy..

My first real meal (i.e., included meat) in several days was last night. It didn't sit particularly well. I had a banana and half a cup of coffee this morning while looking up final directions and instructions. I got into the shower five minutes too late, left five minutes too late, and arrived at the metro station five minutes too late for my train.

I was held up in part while looking for a parking spot and ended up parking in a spot that was reserved until 10, through it was only 9:35. I intentionally parked near the police officer who was inspecting cars and writing tickets so that I could ask him if I was okay. He saw my dress blues and told me he didn't have time to go back and check my row again anyway.

As you might expect, the five minutes cost me. The next train came 15 minutes later, at which point my entire window of extra time was swallowed up. It was 9:50 and the ceremony, after fifteen stops and a transfer, as well as navigating the city that is the Pentagon, would be at 11 sharp. I spent the metro ride switching off between prayers that God would help me arrive on time, panic, and rehearsing my invocation. I tried calling my contact at the Pentagon. No answer.

My transfer cost me another twelve minutes. In that time, God convicted me on a simple but vital truth: This day is not about me. It is about Dana and her grief and the Lord and His grace and glory. I started praying more for those more precious things. By the time I arrived at the Pentagon, it was 10:46. By God's grace, my heart had found greater peace.

Another seven minutes were lost processing through the visitor's entrance, though a security man helped me get through the gate in a more timely fashion. At 10:53 (remember that in the Army, ten minutes early is "on time"), I stood puzzled before the map of the Pentagon, having no idea where to go.

At that moment, a female Army Captain appeared, asking if I was looking for something, I gave her my room number and off we went. She was still holding her dry cleaning, but through sheer kindness (and sympathy for a fellow confused captain in the world of general-level brass), she walked double-time with me to the room. I arrived at 10:58, thanked her profusely and gave her my contact info.

I walked into the room, crowded with generals and colonels from the Navy and Air Force, and was almost immediately greeted by a woman who seated me in the second row. I soon found out that Dave Lyon's parents were watching the ceremony live from an Air Force base in Spokane, WA. Dana's family was sitting in the front row. A moment later, everyone rose and in walked the Secretary of the Navy, Secretary of the Air Force, and seeing her for the first time since Afghanistan, Dana.

I was flooded with memories and emotions. I was transported back sixteen months ago, when I spent the evening shepherding a zealous baby Christian named Dave. He was so excited to know Jesus Christ and was thrilled to have time with a chaplain for the first time on his deployment. His eyes lit up whenever he talked of his wife, Dana, who was deployed down south. He was due to return home several months before her, but refused to come home without his wife, so a number of people helped him extend his deployment.

I was transported back to just over a year ago, when our post shook like a slammed door for a moment and the sirens started to a blear. Our security force ran for their posts while other soldiers, contractors, and civilians made for shelter. The next day, one of my airmen came into my office in tears--his friend, Dave Lyon, had just been killed.

I was transported to a month ago, when Dana included me on an email string with important people at the Pentagon. They were naming a ship after Dave and were having a ceremony in his (and her) honor, but they weren't planning on having a chaplain. She not only asked for a chaplain, but she asked for her chaplain, and Dave's chaplain. Me.

As soon as Dana and the two dignitaries alongside of her sat down, I was called up to give the invocation. I was nervous. Dana wanted me there because I was their chaplain and shared with them the hope of Jesus Christ. At the same time, I was surrounded by the top brass from an increasingly politicized military that frowns on anything having to do with an unapologetic Christianity.

I had even prepared a defense if I was confronted afterward: "Sir or Ma'am, this day is not about you or me, but about Dave and Dana. This was the hope they had, and that still sustains Dana today."

I prayed something along these lines (though it is partially lost in fog):

"Almighty God and Heavenly Father,

You who are powerful in Your mercy and merciful in Your power--
we thank You for the life and legacy of Captain David Lyon.

We thank You for his service to his country and his more important service to his wife,
who he was called to love and serve as Christ loved and served His Church.

I thank you for the hope he had and the hope he now enjoys in full with Jesus,
and pray that the same hope will continue to bring comfort and peace to Dana,
who, though she now walks through the valley of the shadow of death,
still shares that same hope which brings the peace and comfort she needs.

I pray this in Jesus' name, Amen."

Both the Secretary of the Air Force and the Secretary of the Navy gave touching remarks to the gathered assembly afterward, followed by Dana. She spoke of the honor of having a ship, devoted to protecting our country and its freedoms, named after her husband. She stopped for a second at one point and looked up and said "You know, that's what I miss most about him. He was my protector." She quickly looked down, took a deep breath, and composed herself.

She is like the biblical widows of old, finding her trust, refuge, and strength in the Lord alone.

Teary-eyed from that point on, I was one of the first in line to greet Dana and her parents afterward. She gave me a hug and said "Thanks for coming, Chaplain. It means a lot to me because you knew Dave. And thank you for sharing our hope in your prayer."

This being the first time I have talked with her since Afghanistan, I told her what I have wanted to personally say for a year now--that I don't remember him as a hero first, but as a husband. His eyes didn't light up for his country (though he loved it), but for her. He didn't stay in Afghanistan for his country, but for her. He knew that Dana was worth every bit of his life. As I told Dana's parents a moment later, he fulfilled his Ephesians 5 calling (as much as a sinner saved by grace can--only Christ was able to die and rise for His Bride).

To the rest of the gathering, I was a stranger, so I quickly made my way out. I walked back through the bustling corridors to the metro, tired and on edge with emotion. I almost missed my transfer point as I stared off into space. Most of the metro ride was spent in deep thought and short prayers of gratitude to God for getting me to the ceremony in time. I thought of Dave and the life of blessedness He now enjoys, and of Dana, and the life of simple joys in Christ that will sustain her until she sees her best friend once more in glory.

I checked my windshield when I got back to my car. There was no ticket. Simple joys, indeed.