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.

What If My Church Isn't Growing?

When I came on board at Sterling OPC about three years ago, it was with a firm confidence shared by our senior pastor that this precious little flock of two dozen would grow to over 200 at this point.

We are not there. Not even close. And I am consequently humbled and forced to ask the oft-painful question found in the title.

As I have meditated on this question amidst a season of renewed meditation upon God's Word, in His grace, I have come to a few initial conclusions.

1) What kind of question is THAT?

My initial question is incredibly misleading. It is false on the very surface of things--the reality is that we are now regularly drawing 65-75 attendees, which is something to rejoice over! But even if that was not the case--even if we were still around two dozen members--my question concerning growth is absurd.

What is growth? Can it not be qualitative (depth of faith and growth in grace) as well as quantitative (number of butts in the pews)? If one person more regularly attends morning worship, is that not growth? If a young teenager professes her faith, is that not growth?

More than that, can I read the heart? This gets to the more important question: Who grows the Church? In Acts 7-8, there was something of genocide being perpetrated against the fledgling New Testament people of God. Yet that genocide was used to spread the Gospel to the surrounding lands and even precipitate the miraculous conversion of Saul of Tarsus.

The story of the book of Acts and of the Church in general is the story of King Jesus building His Church by His Word and His Spirit, often in contrast to worldly appearances. Where the Gospel is proclaimed, the Church is always growing, and the gates of Hell will not prevail against Him who grows it.

2) Visible growth does not equal real growth.

I find that I am often looking for the same sort of growth that every other sector of society wants--growth in numbers, regardless of means of attracting them and the end for which they are sought.

If a pastor grows his church by a couple of hundred people, he can write a book. If he grows it by thousands, then he can speak at conferences and perhaps even be broadcast on the radio or TV.

I live in a culture that celebrates celebrity over all else and I am a sinner to boot. I want a blog post that gets over a hundred views and a book with back cover plugs by Piper, Horton, and Keller.

But visible growth does not equal real growth. The Second Great Awakening in America was filled with celebrity pastors with renowned methods and often with virtually no Gospel message. Their pews were packed--a generation later, they were abandoned.

When I consider my role as a shepherd of God's people, I need to count the cost and not count the heads. If I am flattering myself with what we in the military call "good news stories," and am not dying to self for the sake of Christ's sheep, then I am out of step with the calling Christ has placed upon me and need to repent (again and again!).

Christ is lavishing blessing upon unseen blessing upon His people. Every time I have the gall to question whether one of His sheep is bearing fruit, I am really questioning whether Christ is bearing fruit. Imagine the fruit I could more tangibly bear in the time I wasted on such judgmentalism!

3) I need to love the one I am with, not the one I wish to have.

I have often been frustrated with our people's perceived lack of engagement with the surrounding culture. Do they not care for the salvation of their neighbor, co-workers, or others in their community? Do they not understand that this is a biblical imperative and an essential (not optional) part of the Christian life? And each question like this that I ask, I further cement my status as a self-righteous, judgmental jerk.

Jonathan Leeman, from 9 Marks, had a good article on this state of pastoral disillusionment on The Gospel Coalition site yesterday. We live in a real world, not an ideal world. This gets at the heart of the Gospel--Christ died for a real people, not an ideal people. He is the ideal--the only one who perfectly obeyed the law of God in this life and was without sin, the only One who was willing and able to conquer death, and did just that. He did this, not before a crowd of those who celebrated His heroic humiliation, but who mocked Him, condemned Him, and killed Him. He had every right to smite all mankind--He is justified in His judgment--but instead, He cried out for mercy. His love for His people and for the glory of God carried Him to the cross for a world that hates Him by nature.

And I part of the crowd, not above it. If our people were failing at their calling to share the Gospel (and they are not), then it would merely be a reflection of my failure as a shepherd. But Christ does not fail, nor does His work in His sheep. When I strip off the petty, self-righteous veneer of my judgment, I find a precious people, beloved by God and doing grace-infused work for His sake.

This flock is filled with ordinary beauty that I am prone to miss while pursuing my misguided dreams of grandeur. I have seen brothers and sisters weep over their sin and endeavor anew after righteousness for the sake of their Savior. I watch little lambs mature into full grown sheep, fulfilling God's covenant promises. Our precious little flock has been stretched by the Gospel over the past several years and have taken on a new shape as a result. In ordinary and unassuming ways, our people are offering themselves as living sacrifices as their worship to the Lord. And these are just the visible things!

The goal of the under-shepherd of Christ's flock is not to browbeat the sheep into fulfilling certain quotas and the unrecognized dreams of said under-shepherd, but rather, is to heed Christ's call to Peter: Do you love Me? Then feed my sheep.

As my young, foolish heart heeds this call anew, I not only find myself loving my Savior-Shepherd more, but His precious flock as well. I need not worry about my church's growth as much as my own.

I look at Sterling OPC--our little corner of Christ's Kingdom--and find myself in love with His Bride.

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.

Random Army Tidbits

I will soon be assigned to a military intelligence unit and I am excited for the change.

I will miss the 55th Sustainment Brigade, but by God's grace, I have accomplished all that I sought to do with them. Most of them are my friends (and I care about all of them), and I am satisfied that they have had the whole counsel of God shared with them over the years. My final goal before moving on was to deploy with this unit, and now I am content.

My new unit will be quite different from the old. We do have SF, airborne, or infantry units in the Reserves. This is the closest we have. Some call our MI folks the "JB's" of the Army--the James Bonds, Jason Bournes, and Jack Bauers. Not only will I have the opportunity to love on a new type of soldier, but will have more opportunities to expand my training and experience (i.e. jump school, combat medical ministry school, etc).

I had lunch with the current chaplain of my new unit yesterday, and she let me know that she has been praying for me for quite a while now. What an encouragement!

After we ate lunch (at the hospital cafeteria at Ft. Belvoir), we dropped by the chaplain office in the building. I ran into one of my former classmates from my initial chaplain training course (almost six years ago). He deployed to Afghanistan in 2012. When I asked him how he and his family are doing, he said that things are just beginning to become "normal" again--a poignant reminder that we all come back changed and that there is no recipe for recovery but clinging to the Gospel.

In that vein, I think it useful to think past all of the political bluster regarding this whole Bowe Bergdahl ordeal (especially for Christians). My church family has been connected to this saga for a number of years now and have been actively praying for Bowe's release, despite whatever circumstances precipitated his capture. His parents are suffering believers who need our compassion, not our condemnation, and we can hope that both justice would prevail in the civil realm and mercy prevail in the spiritual realm as it pertains to our broken soldier who has come home.

I hope (but am not confident) that many will become convicted of their own prior apathy in this current controversy. How many of you were thinking of those six dead soldiers and their families prior to all of this? Why do we as a country only weep for the loss of these soldiers now? We all become morally-minded humanitarians when we have a political stake in the matter. May we all remember that while we live, others die. This life is but a mist. Perhaps the best tribute we can give those who die in our stead is to make our lives worthwhile--not in mere pursuit of happiness (selfish hedoism is not tribute to the fallen), but to consider our purpose in this life, which according to Scripture, is much bigger than our own personal narrative.

The bigger narrative--that of the triune God redeeming a beloved people throughout history by the person and work of Jesus Christ--is what will make "the things of earth grow strangely dim in the light of His glory and grace."

Speaking of narratives, Dana Lyon sent me this email recently:

Hi there Ch Roberts,

Thank you for the continued notes of encouragement and prayers... the Body of Christ is helping this child of God hobble along through this grief.  I miss my Dave so so much.  

I know that He has never left me, not even in this time.  He's closer than He's ever been, but goodness, I just want a break from the pain.  I don't know what else to do but worship and sit at His feet, that's where Dave is... I just wish He would provide something more tangible.  He gave me all I ever wanted as a woman, a strong leader and a God fearing warrior for a husband--I feel so weak and vulnerable without him.  I hate being alone and I hate being without my best friend and protector.  We were not made for this pain, we were not made for this world.  

You are right, this is a broken broken world, but The Lord does fight for us, He does provide for us and He will heal this broken heart.  Until I figure out His plan for this life, I keep trudging along day by day...

Thanks again for your prayers and encouragement... 

Dana

Why Soldiers Miss War

I just read an article with an accompanying interview on a reporter who really seems to "get it" with regard to why soldiers miss war: http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/newsmakers/sebastian-junger-why-soldiers-miss-war-122426898.html.

It's not a morbid love of combat or trauma, but more a sense of moral purpose, especially as it pertains to the "band of brothers" that serve together.

Though not a soldier himself, Junger has a heart-deep understanding of this principle through his year embedded in a remote outpost in Afghanistan, his injuries due to an IED blast, and the loss of his fellow reporter, Tim Hetherington, in Libya (the two of them had teamed up on the hit documentary, Restrepo).

Junger's link between survivor's guilt and PTSD is particularly insightful.

Speaking of Band of Brothers, I just watched the whole series for the first time. Certainly wouldn't have appreciated it a few years ago like I do now. It's the psychological portraits that particularly grab me.

There was one lieutenant during the battle for Bastogne, who watched from his foxhole as two of his soldiers and closest friends were both maimed in a bombardment. While the lieutenant wasn't physically injured and had served valiantly since D-Day, that experience broke him and ended the war for him.

Toward the end of the war, another lieutenant almost broke when he received news that his wife was not only divorcing him, but was even taking his dog.

And there was the pervasive sense in the closing days of the campaign in Europe that every soldier must be kept from harm. They were close to going home! And every time a soldier died thereafter, often from stupid things like car accidents, it was an unmitigated tragedy.

Finally, the emotions of the war were stretched upon the withered faces of the veterans who in their old age introduced each episode. A half century after the fact, they still wept for their friends and the war that forever changed them.

The wounds of war heal, but the scars never fade.