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.
19.6.15
17.6.15
Finally, The Phone Call That Never Came
It has been about five months since one of my soldiers, SPC Serpa, lost his life by his own hand. Five months since he wrote me on Facebook, saying he would like to talk and asking for my number. I gave him my number and told him I would love to talk. The call never came.
In the past few days, an unknown friend reached out of the darkness for me on Facebook. He told me that he was a friend of Matt Serpa, read my blog posts, and wanted to talk. As with Matt, I gave him my number and waited. This young man did indeed call.
We talked for the better part of an hour last night. He was Serpa's fraternity brother at Columbia, and has wrestled with the darkness that took his friend's life ever since his tragic passing. I think there were three primary things that were affecting him:
1) Regret. He said it wasn't so much a feeling of guilt that perplexed, but just the haunting "What if?" questions. What if he had been more attentive or proactive with regard to Serpa's psychological deterioration? What if he had picked up the phone a few more times toward the end? Perhaps all of this wouldn't have happened.
We spoke a bit about God's mysterious providence. I don't know why the Lord gave Serpa so few years, but I know that those were years we couldn't prolong or diminish--as much as we would like to take credit or blame. Also, considering the fact that God had appointed this lifespan for Serpa, we can certainly be thankful that we got to enjoy a piece of it, and perhaps add something to it.
2) Shallow Answers. The worst of these being "Remember the good times you had with him," or even "Remember him for who he was--before all this happened." But this young man could not find it within himself to euphemize death, as is so common in our culture. The fact is that this brokenness was a part of Serpa, and eventually led to his death.
There were several things we talked about concerning these shallow answers. First, we need to take death seriously. It is not something to be dismissed lightly--it is a horrendous rending of the fabric of God's beautiful creation. It screams with the blood of Abel (Gen. 4--whose name means "chaos," by the way) and evoked a heart-rending cry from the very Son of God (John 11). It deserves more than petty cliches and dismissal--it deserves an emphatic answer.
Second, we talked about the complexity of human nature. My new friend was right not to blot out Serpa's brokenness--it was as much a part of his (fallen) being as was his inherent dignity. To deny a part of Matt is to deny Matt entirely and reduce him to a cardboard cutout. We honor his memory by remembering the whole person.
Third, because humans are complex beings--both dignified and fallen--my new friend has to resist the temptation to react against the culture by only dwelling on Serpa's steady descent into death. Serpa was not just broken, but dignified--his unique, God-given personality and gifts were eventually wasted by him, but they should not be wasted by us. We must remember those precious things as God's gift to us and rejoice that we could offer him gifts in his brief life as well.
3) The Rock is Gone. This young collegiate greatly admired Serpa, who was a few years older. A lot of the fraternity brothers recognized that he had a real-world experience in his deployment that none of them had. In a sense, Serpa had grown to mythological proportions in this man's mind. He was a rock--a man of solid fiber who could withstand the worst of the world. And bit by bit, the rock crumbled to dust and blew away, leaving a gaping void in this young man's life.
Thus becomes every earthly idol--whether it be people, education, riches, pleasure, or family. They all eventually blow away in the present wasteland of worldly existence.
This young man has slowly been succumbing to the same darkness that entombed Serpa. I told him that death requires a fight, and the fight starts with serious wrestling and serious answers. Instead of simply giving way, he needs to DO something. He needs to go to church and hear what God has to say on the matter. He needs to find a rock that won't crumble.
God-willing, he will be visiting Redeemer PCA in New York City, which is right down the road from him.
I told him to save my number in his phone. I deployed with 152 soldiers, came home with 152 soldiers, and now have a hole in my deployment roster. He will fill that hole.
May the Lord bless and guide this journey of grief to the cross. And, brother, if you are reading this, the journey is just beginning. You didn't call me out of the darkness--the Lord was calling you.
In the past few days, an unknown friend reached out of the darkness for me on Facebook. He told me that he was a friend of Matt Serpa, read my blog posts, and wanted to talk. As with Matt, I gave him my number and waited. This young man did indeed call.
We talked for the better part of an hour last night. He was Serpa's fraternity brother at Columbia, and has wrestled with the darkness that took his friend's life ever since his tragic passing. I think there were three primary things that were affecting him:
1) Regret. He said it wasn't so much a feeling of guilt that perplexed, but just the haunting "What if?" questions. What if he had been more attentive or proactive with regard to Serpa's psychological deterioration? What if he had picked up the phone a few more times toward the end? Perhaps all of this wouldn't have happened.
We spoke a bit about God's mysterious providence. I don't know why the Lord gave Serpa so few years, but I know that those were years we couldn't prolong or diminish--as much as we would like to take credit or blame. Also, considering the fact that God had appointed this lifespan for Serpa, we can certainly be thankful that we got to enjoy a piece of it, and perhaps add something to it.
2) Shallow Answers. The worst of these being "Remember the good times you had with him," or even "Remember him for who he was--before all this happened." But this young man could not find it within himself to euphemize death, as is so common in our culture. The fact is that this brokenness was a part of Serpa, and eventually led to his death.
There were several things we talked about concerning these shallow answers. First, we need to take death seriously. It is not something to be dismissed lightly--it is a horrendous rending of the fabric of God's beautiful creation. It screams with the blood of Abel (Gen. 4--whose name means "chaos," by the way) and evoked a heart-rending cry from the very Son of God (John 11). It deserves more than petty cliches and dismissal--it deserves an emphatic answer.
Second, we talked about the complexity of human nature. My new friend was right not to blot out Serpa's brokenness--it was as much a part of his (fallen) being as was his inherent dignity. To deny a part of Matt is to deny Matt entirely and reduce him to a cardboard cutout. We honor his memory by remembering the whole person.
Third, because humans are complex beings--both dignified and fallen--my new friend has to resist the temptation to react against the culture by only dwelling on Serpa's steady descent into death. Serpa was not just broken, but dignified--his unique, God-given personality and gifts were eventually wasted by him, but they should not be wasted by us. We must remember those precious things as God's gift to us and rejoice that we could offer him gifts in his brief life as well.
3) The Rock is Gone. This young collegiate greatly admired Serpa, who was a few years older. A lot of the fraternity brothers recognized that he had a real-world experience in his deployment that none of them had. In a sense, Serpa had grown to mythological proportions in this man's mind. He was a rock--a man of solid fiber who could withstand the worst of the world. And bit by bit, the rock crumbled to dust and blew away, leaving a gaping void in this young man's life.
Thus becomes every earthly idol--whether it be people, education, riches, pleasure, or family. They all eventually blow away in the present wasteland of worldly existence.
This young man has slowly been succumbing to the same darkness that entombed Serpa. I told him that death requires a fight, and the fight starts with serious wrestling and serious answers. Instead of simply giving way, he needs to DO something. He needs to go to church and hear what God has to say on the matter. He needs to find a rock that won't crumble.
God-willing, he will be visiting Redeemer PCA in New York City, which is right down the road from him.
I told him to save my number in his phone. I deployed with 152 soldiers, came home with 152 soldiers, and now have a hole in my deployment roster. He will fill that hole.
May the Lord bless and guide this journey of grief to the cross. And, brother, if you are reading this, the journey is just beginning. You didn't call me out of the darkness--the Lord was calling you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)