Processing a Soldier's Death

SPC Serpa was stationed in northern Afghanistan along with two NCOs from our unit who were both old enough to be his parents. And naturally, they grew to assume those roles. The female NCO would pester him with motherly advice and was fiercely protective of him. The male NCO would treat him like a man and invite him to gatherings with older soldiers, giving him the opportunity to be respected as a peer.

I thought of these things last night as I looked at a photo posted by the male NCO of the "Camp Mike Spann Cigar Club," with Serpa in the middle of the gathering of older soldiers, trying to look suave and adult-like (even with his baby face--second row, right, in PT jacket). I looked at the photo for a few moments, said something to my wife about it, opened up a bottle of wine, poured a glass, and began to weep. The tears that I had been suppressing for days in order to better care for my soldiers were let loose.

For the benefit of the soldiers reading this post, I will be candid with my own thoughts and feelings with the hope that they will be useful to you as you join me on this journey of grief and, God-willing, hope. Here is what I am feeling and how I am working to process these thoughts and emotions:

1) Anger. I am really angry--like punch a hole in the wall, throw something across the room angry. I am angry at Serpa for not alerting people to his struggle. I am angry at him for reaching out to me on Facebook but not giving me a chance to help him.

I am also angry at the situation.

It is like seeing your friend standing on the ledge of a building, about to jump. You cry out for him to please not jump and just talk with you. He agrees, but as you are running across the roof, he jumps anyway. He gave you a moment of hope, only to dash it entirely. You reach out to grab him before he falls, but the only thing your hand grasps is memories and visions of a future lost.

It is okay to be angry--these situations merit anger. The words used to describe Jesus' grief at the tomb of Lazarus include with them the idea of grief-induced rage. You can rage against brokenness.

At the same time, you must be careful to avoid misplaced anger. When I got in the car yesterday afternoon with my wife and boy to go visit our friends, I was seething. I forced myself to start talking to my wife, to explain to her how I was feeling (as best as I could), and just bring my anger out into the light of day with my wife's help. As a result, I could keep my anger focused on where it needed to be and find a sense of peace for the remainder of our outing.

Finally, I am angry with myself, and that leads to my next feeling...

2) Guilt. I know that I am not responsible for Serpa's death. I know that God is all-powerful and controls matters of life and death. I also know that we are responsible for our own lives. We can influence one another, but we will also be limited in our ability to reach each other's hearts and thoughts and affect each other's choices. We are each responsible for getting the help that we need.

I know all of these things, but how often does cool logic really penetrate our hearts?

I read the dozens of comments that say something along the lines of "I wish he had reached out," and know that he did reach out--he just refused to take my hand. I have answered numerous calls from soldiers, wanting to know how this could have possibly happen, expecting me to know the heart and mind of Serpa. I am the chaplain after all. But I am not God, though, God help me, I sometimes wish I was so that I might have His knowledge and power for cases such as these. His ways are not my ways, and mysterious as they may be, His ways are always best.

Feeling guilt is natural in these times, but you must not allow guilt to swallow up your grief. Guilt is a parasite upon grief, turning the pathways of healing into pathways of poison--destroying you and the memory of the person you grieve and wish to honor. In that way, it is also selfish, because your lost battle buddy deserves your grief, not your self-focused guilt. When you experience the pangs of guilt, remember this: This soldier--this death--deserves your grief. It is about him, not about you.

3) Grief. This is really the central feeling. Anger and guilt are usually coping mechanisms--ways to handle a burden that seems to heavy to carry. This is the feeling that we always want to come back to. It does not condemn others as anger often does, nor does it offer self-condemnation as guilt so often does. It is the true echo of tragedy--the sound the heart makes when it collides with a broken world.

In following the pathway of grief, you can eventually find healing and even hope.

It is in following this pathway that I am given the freedom to mourn Serpa and not myself, to come to terms with what has been lost, and to remember that not all is lost.

I have lost two soldiers in the last thirteen months. I know that some of my soldiers have lost more than they can count. Some of them have tattoos on their arms, back, or chest, honoring their fallen battle buddies. All of them have the tattoos, penned with blood, written upon their hearts. I do as well.

While death seems like the ultimate reality in these brief lives of ours, it is not eternal--it did not exist in the beginning, nor will it exist in the age to come. Along with sin and Satan, death will one day be finally vanquished beneath the feet of Jesus Christ (1 Cor. 15). This is the end goal and purpose of this world, and God only tarries in bringing this about so that more might come to embrace this overarching story line in human history and the One who fulfills, guides, and accomplishes it--Jesus.

This is where the pathway of grief is meant to lead--back to the paradise man lost at the beginning and the brokenness that we now feel in our bones, and the paradise that Christ has won for the future for all who believe in Him. Instead of following the dark pathways of unrestrained anger and guilt and drinking their poison to the dregs, we can follow a Shepherd (John 10). He knows His sheep and they know His voice, and as their Savior and Lord, He guides them beside the quiet waters, in paths of righteousness, and restores their souls (Psalm 23).

Father, restore our souls for the sake of Your Son, Jesus Christ. Though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, help us to fear no evil. Comfort us with your presence and direct our eyes and hearts to the day when we will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Come, Lord Jesus, come.

A Fitting Farewell to SPC Serpa (Funeral Recap)

There was a surreal feeling the moment I entered the old Reserve Center this morning and saw a bunch of familiar faces. I was excited to see them for the first time since Afghanistan, but subdued due to the occasion of our meeting. Inevitably, the two feelings results in superficial banter and awkward humor.

When Serpa's "deployment mom" arrived, she was already crying, and she would be the rest of the day. She was one of the three from our unit assigned to Camp Spann in the north. He was young enough to be her son, and she treated him as such. As different as they were, there was a bond between those two that was too harshly severed this past week.

Based on the number of people I saw at the Reserve Center, I anticipated that maybe two dozen soldiers would show up for the funeral. I was wrong. By the time the funeral in Arlington started, the place was packed beyond capacity. I wouldn't be surprised if over 50 of Serpa's battle buddies were there, packing the main room, the side room, the reception hall, and lining the walls.

Our former commander was there with his wife, as well as number of other O-5s and O-6s, showing that rank is of no significance at a time like this. Several of our soldiers arrived home late last night from an assignment and were there this morning. One NCO flew all the way from Texas. Every one of our major sections from our deployment--both at Camp Eggers and Camp Phoenix--were represented. The Active Duty COL who was Serpa's commander at Spann was there. A mass of soldiers from the 55th who did not deploy with us attended as well.

In other words, Serpa was not forgotten by his fellow soldiers. If only he had seen the crowd before!

But for those battles who were unable to attend: Rest assured that the most important thing to all of us--honoring and remembering our soldier--was accomplished.

The ceremony was moving, as expected. The minister--a retired O-6 Navy chaplain, spoke clearly concerning the hope that the Gospel of Jesus Christ offers at times like this. Surely that is the only hope that can anchor the drifting soul in the midst of such unfathomable grief!

Remarks were made by Serpa's older brother, uncle, best friend, and finally, his sister (who looks close in age to her deceased brother). It was his sister who finally broke open the gathered emotion. She described her brother as her best friend and just kept looking back at the coffin and saying I love you through cascades of sobs. It was heartrending.

We all gathered back into our vehicles afterward and were led through the city of Arlington, with police cars at either end of our long convoy, and intersections blocked by other police cars throughout the city. As they tend to do, the boys in blue had our back.

Soon, a small crowd, including a sea of dress blue uniforms gathered around a modest tent in the cemetery, white flakes descending upon the sea of blue. A few more prayers and Scripture passages were offered, followed by TAPS and the folding of the flag and presentation to Serpa's mother.

I have served as the OIC for well over 200 of these funerals, but have never had to attend one for one of my soldiers. After all 152 of us returned from overseas, the thought just never occurred to me.

So where do you go from here?

In John 11, Jesus stood before the tomb of his friend, Lazarus, and wept. Why? Was it because his friend was lost forever? Nope. Jesus, the very Son of God, knew he was about to raise Lazarus from the dead. He wept because the breathtaking world created through Him (John 1), and was now so evidently corrupt and broken. He wept, before He raised His friend with power, that we might see something of the heart of God as well as the power of God.

In the coming days, as you stand, like Jesus, before the specter of death, know that your grief is but an echo of the compassionate heart of God, crying out for His power to remedy the brokenness of this world and of your heart. He is ready and willing to answer that cry by showing you anew His empty tomb--where the heart of God and the power of God were made manifest for the salvation of sinners in His life, death, and resurrection.

You need not look into the precipice and see only death. It does not have the final word. He does, and He declares "It is finished." One day, this truth will pass from the realm of faith to that of sight, when every tear is wiped from the eye of His redeemed people. To God be the glory.

"The saviors come not home tonight. Themselves they could not save." -A.E. Houseman

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.