Empty Gloves

I just came into possession of a pair of gloves. I already have about half a dozen pairs of gloves--and this pair I will never wear. They belonged to SPC Matthew Serpa.

A soldier directed me to a couple of large duffle bags a little while ago. They were the bags that Serpa sent home, but never picked up. As I thumbed through the uniforms and other miscellaneous supplies, I smelled the dirt and sweat. I went back to my soldier and tried to describe the smell--"Smell like deployment, sir?" That was exactly what it smelled like.

I didn't know what to take, but I wanted to take something. All of the uniforms were dirt and sweat-smudged and obviously not touched since we came back almost 18 months ago. It feels like an eternity.

I have no idea when Serpa last wore those gloves. Likely at some point during the deployment, when all seemed to be going well in that witty, introspective mind of his. They covered the same hands that ravenously tore apart pizza to satisfy a young man's appetite, and awkwardly offer gestures to accompany his halting speech.

What will I do with these empty gloves? I will remember the young soldier I shepherded for four years, who shook my hand when he first arrived at the unit, straight out of high school, and who engaged me in late-night conversations in the California desert. I will remember the young man who gave me a tour of his post in northern Afghanistan and shared a flight with me back to Dulles the night we returned home. I was the last person from our unit to see him home, as I watched him walk away to catch a taxi as my wife and mother ran to embrace me.

I will remember that most soldiers come back from war, but few come home. The hell that soldiers bear witness to on the surface of this world often does not compare to the hell they bear under the surface, in the world of their souls.

I will remember that one day, my gloves will sit empty as well. And the thought of my empty gloves does not leave me with an empty heart. My hands may perish from this earth, but the hands that hold me--the hands that snatch sinners from a literal hell, not merely a metaphorical one--will endure.

Praise be to God.