This afternoon, as my little ones were napping, I zipped down to a nearby sports bar, ordered a half-price daiquiri (mixed fruit was the flavor of choice), and barreled down on a long-term writing project. "What project," you ask? (You didn't ask, of course, but I wanted to ask the question for a sense of rhetorical flow.) I am writing a month-long devotional for Haven Ministries, a wonderful Christian ministry that has long held my wife in their employ. The devotional will be based on my experiences as deployed chaplain.
Naturally, such work deserves a daiquiri as I am reminded that two people who served over there with me are no longer with us. I also am reminded that the helpless infant crying in my arms when I left could stand and stare at me from his pack-and-play upon my return. Not that these things carry any bitterness, but they will always be wounds I sadly and proudly bare for the cause of sharing Christ with my soldiers and serving those who serve our country.
Any time I allow myself to dwell on that time, I get a bit on edge. There is just something so raw about that experience--a "something" that lodges in the heart and mind of every vet that never goes away. After working and writing for a few hours, I paid for my drink and walked toward the door, eyes a bit glassy as the old highlight reel of sights, sounds, and smells went coursing through my head.
I walked right by an older man in one of those decked out veterans vests, proudly displaying his time of service in the 101st Airborne and in Vietnam. I took a few more steps, stopped, and went back and introduced myself to him. I love finding fellow veterans, knowing that we share a bond. I especially love finding Vietnam vets so that I can thank them for enduring fire from home and the enemy. They made it so that soldiers today can proudly face the enemy without fear of attacks from home.
This veteran, like all the rest, is a hero. I googled him after our encounter, and found this tidbit about him: He "served in 1966-67 with the 173rd Airborne as a Combat Medic. He is the only Medic to have made a Combat parachute jump during the Vietnam War." He didn't tell me any of that. Knowing that I am a chaplain, he simply said that he was the last face that many of our soldiers ever saw.
He also served alongside the heroic Catholic chaplain, Charles Watters. Chaplain Watters cared for this soldier, and cared for hundreds of other soldiers while under fire. He was posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor--one of seven chaplains to ever receive that honor. You can find more about Chaplain Watters here.
This veteran has two sons who proudly wear the uniform. One just returned home from Afghanistan. He also had a son who died last year at age 30 from a medical illness exacerbated by alcoholism. This man tried to save his son, but couldn't. But he puts his hope in the God of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, who has defeated death and will one day do away with it once and for all.
Before we parted ways, I prayed with this dear, heartsick veteran and father, largely along the lines of the picture and Bible verse he showed me from his son's funeral:
3 And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. 4 ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” (Revelation 21)
Until that Day, dear brother!
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