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.
8.6.15
My Last Business Card
Last night, I handed my last Sterling Pres business card to my neighbor.
It was a surreal moment when I grabbed that card and realized that there were none behind it. I realized that with that card, I was symbolically giving away the last of my days with this precious church. I got those cards when I first came to Sterling. The title under my name was "Associate," because I was not yet a pastor at the church.
It seems increasingly likely that the next big transition is coming for the Roberts household. It feels a bit like being swept up in the gale of God's providence. One by one, various possibilities are falling away like dominoes, and we are left to tread into the unknown.
It was almost four years ago that the gale of God's providence surprisingly swept us into Sterling church. I had preached there for the better part of six months, but there was no way that a church of about two dozen would call a second pastor. Thankfully, the Lord provided them with a visionary senior pastor and a session and body eager to follow.
The band room has been replaced by the auditorium as our sanctuary, and the scattered instruments have given way to people gathered from all walks of life.
We may not have grown to 200 people, or planted a church or two, as I would have liked. Instead, we grew the old fashioned way--the best way--simply by the grace of God. Not just the church, but me as well.
While the church, like every other, has its share of struggles, it is markedly healthy--with an ever-deepening body of believers and a steady stream of visitors--both believers and unbelievers--who come through and find themselves drawn to God's Word and loved by His people. If once a year, we--like the politicians--had a "State of the Communion" speech, it would be glowing with grace.
Over the past several years, this church has been a constant in a life marked by a scary surgery, the birth of one child, the trauma of separation and deployment, the birth of another child, and financial uncertainty. Now the Lord, in His wise providence, seems to be removing that constant, and I believe we are ready.
Thank you, Lord, for a million gracious providences. They fell upon us like manna and fed our weary hearts, though we often weren't looking for them. Our faith is fed by Your faithfulness to us in Christ, and we are full. Onward and upward!
It was a surreal moment when I grabbed that card and realized that there were none behind it. I realized that with that card, I was symbolically giving away the last of my days with this precious church. I got those cards when I first came to Sterling. The title under my name was "Associate," because I was not yet a pastor at the church.
It seems increasingly likely that the next big transition is coming for the Roberts household. It feels a bit like being swept up in the gale of God's providence. One by one, various possibilities are falling away like dominoes, and we are left to tread into the unknown.
It was almost four years ago that the gale of God's providence surprisingly swept us into Sterling church. I had preached there for the better part of six months, but there was no way that a church of about two dozen would call a second pastor. Thankfully, the Lord provided them with a visionary senior pastor and a session and body eager to follow.
The band room has been replaced by the auditorium as our sanctuary, and the scattered instruments have given way to people gathered from all walks of life.
We may not have grown to 200 people, or planted a church or two, as I would have liked. Instead, we grew the old fashioned way--the best way--simply by the grace of God. Not just the church, but me as well.
While the church, like every other, has its share of struggles, it is markedly healthy--with an ever-deepening body of believers and a steady stream of visitors--both believers and unbelievers--who come through and find themselves drawn to God's Word and loved by His people. If once a year, we--like the politicians--had a "State of the Communion" speech, it would be glowing with grace.
Over the past several years, this church has been a constant in a life marked by a scary surgery, the birth of one child, the trauma of separation and deployment, the birth of another child, and financial uncertainty. Now the Lord, in His wise providence, seems to be removing that constant, and I believe we are ready.
Thank you, Lord, for a million gracious providences. They fell upon us like manna and fed our weary hearts, though we often weren't looking for them. Our faith is fed by Your faithfulness to us in Christ, and we are full. Onward and upward!
25.5.15
A Month Until My Pastoral Call Ends
Perhaps it is due to the nature of events recently, but I am feeling particularly nostalgic and sentimental.
In about a month, my first pastoral call will come to a close. Neither me nor the church wanted this call to end, but the Lord's providence is not dependent upon human wills. Since the Fall of 2011, I have served in a church that God has blessed to triple in size and radically transform. The growth and the transformation did not result in a continuing income, and my call is to be content with that outcome.
I am privileged and blessed to have enjoyed this experience. The senior pastor, a dear elder brother and friend, knew my precarious position as a Army Reserve chaplain and offered me an opportunity to serve and grow. Who knows where the Lord would have had me if not at Sterling? But in His sweet grace, He has given me years of preaching and teaching experience, years of being humbled and learning what it means to take His people into my heart.
For several long months, with new baby in tow, the Roberts household pondered what the Lord would have for us in the coming days. Some days have been bright with contentment and hope; others darkened by the poison of resentment and anxiety. But it is only within our power to label the days based on our petty feelings, not ordain the days or define their purpose. That power belongs to the Lord alone, and as His providence is always holy, wise, and powerful, it doesn't really matter what our feelings are. The weight of His heart, not our own, defines our lives.
Last night, we bought tickets to Vancouver for a portion of the summer to fill a pulpit for a friend who is traveling back home to Malawi to visit his family. An opportunity like this--to assist a friend, travel to and live in a very different location, and shepherd another grouping of God's flock--is only possible because I am soon to be "under-employed." Who would believe that such a circumstance would be a blessing? But that is what we must always learn anew.
Until we leave, the Army will be providing me with additional duties that will supplement our income and help steady some of the "lean" season in Vancouver. When I return, I may have a full-time teaching position waiting for me, alongside my regular chaplaincy duties. Speaking of which, I have grown increasingly attached to my new unit at Ft. Meade. The Gospel opportunities are endless. And I may be permitted to continue teaching "boot camp"--fitness classes that I have taught in NoVa for the past couple of months under the oversight of a fellow believer and former Army Ranger.
And I will continue to be able to serve the flock at Sterling--not regularly, mind you, but this will continue to be our particular corner of the Kingdom for a time. By God's grace, I continue to form more connections with the community here. I gave the benediction for a Memorial Day ceremony today, led by the local American Legion. I may have an opportunity to be their "chaplain" as well.
On a day like today, I realize that the old wounds still linger. Yesterday, I preached a church in a remote town in southern Maryland and had the opportunity to teach on the work of the Army chaplain. I soon as I started talking about Dave Lyon, my voice broke. It's pretty pitiful to hear me in such moments. I don't know how to cry. It sounds like somebody is choking on a turkey bone.
Today, on Memorial Day, I remember CPT David Lyon, United States Air Force, and SPC Matthew Serpa, United States Army. I remember the families they left behind, and the thousands of families who have an empty seat at the dinner table. That puts the present uncertainty in perspective.
Paraphrasing Calvin, it is a pitiable thing when one's obsession with life becomes more important than one's purpose in life. May I always remember that my purpose is bound to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, who has enabled me to live for the glory of God and enjoy Him forever.
In about a month, my first pastoral call will come to a close. Neither me nor the church wanted this call to end, but the Lord's providence is not dependent upon human wills. Since the Fall of 2011, I have served in a church that God has blessed to triple in size and radically transform. The growth and the transformation did not result in a continuing income, and my call is to be content with that outcome.
I am privileged and blessed to have enjoyed this experience. The senior pastor, a dear elder brother and friend, knew my precarious position as a Army Reserve chaplain and offered me an opportunity to serve and grow. Who knows where the Lord would have had me if not at Sterling? But in His sweet grace, He has given me years of preaching and teaching experience, years of being humbled and learning what it means to take His people into my heart.
For several long months, with new baby in tow, the Roberts household pondered what the Lord would have for us in the coming days. Some days have been bright with contentment and hope; others darkened by the poison of resentment and anxiety. But it is only within our power to label the days based on our petty feelings, not ordain the days or define their purpose. That power belongs to the Lord alone, and as His providence is always holy, wise, and powerful, it doesn't really matter what our feelings are. The weight of His heart, not our own, defines our lives.
Last night, we bought tickets to Vancouver for a portion of the summer to fill a pulpit for a friend who is traveling back home to Malawi to visit his family. An opportunity like this--to assist a friend, travel to and live in a very different location, and shepherd another grouping of God's flock--is only possible because I am soon to be "under-employed." Who would believe that such a circumstance would be a blessing? But that is what we must always learn anew.
Until we leave, the Army will be providing me with additional duties that will supplement our income and help steady some of the "lean" season in Vancouver. When I return, I may have a full-time teaching position waiting for me, alongside my regular chaplaincy duties. Speaking of which, I have grown increasingly attached to my new unit at Ft. Meade. The Gospel opportunities are endless. And I may be permitted to continue teaching "boot camp"--fitness classes that I have taught in NoVa for the past couple of months under the oversight of a fellow believer and former Army Ranger.
And I will continue to be able to serve the flock at Sterling--not regularly, mind you, but this will continue to be our particular corner of the Kingdom for a time. By God's grace, I continue to form more connections with the community here. I gave the benediction for a Memorial Day ceremony today, led by the local American Legion. I may have an opportunity to be their "chaplain" as well.
On a day like today, I realize that the old wounds still linger. Yesterday, I preached a church in a remote town in southern Maryland and had the opportunity to teach on the work of the Army chaplain. I soon as I started talking about Dave Lyon, my voice broke. It's pretty pitiful to hear me in such moments. I don't know how to cry. It sounds like somebody is choking on a turkey bone.
Today, on Memorial Day, I remember CPT David Lyon, United States Air Force, and SPC Matthew Serpa, United States Army. I remember the families they left behind, and the thousands of families who have an empty seat at the dinner table. That puts the present uncertainty in perspective.
Paraphrasing Calvin, it is a pitiable thing when one's obsession with life becomes more important than one's purpose in life. May I always remember that my purpose is bound to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, who has enabled me to live for the glory of God and enjoy Him forever.
10.5.15
Just Another Funeral?
While not nearly as frequent as a couple of years ago, I still venture out to conduct a funeral as the OIC (officer-in-charge) on occasion. Most of the time, I go with my old friend the MSG (Master Sergeant). MSG, a hard-of-hearing veteran NCO of over 30 years experience trained me for funerals years ago, and has been part of my team for probably half of the 250+ funerals I have done.
On Thursday, I traveled with the MSG to our second funeral of the week--several hours west in the mountains of West Virginia. We passed through old towns dating back to the 1700s, winding through verdant pastures and lush mountainsides in the process. When we arrived in our particular mountainside destination, we had to venture off the known map in order to find the cemetery.
In this remote location, we would be burying a World War Two veteran. Joining us on this mission were about eight American Legion vets, ranging from the sixties to eighties in terms of age (MSG will be there in a few years). Most of them date back to the Vietnam era. I was proud to serve alongside of them in conducting this funeral.
A few remarks were given of this deceased hero, and then we were given the reigns. MSG called every to stand for the presentation of military honors. The two of us, posted on either side of the coffin, turned in and slowly raised a salute to the flag. The firing team fired off three volleys, and TAPS sounded on the bugle. When the bugle stopped, MSG and I slowly lowered our salutes, grabbed the corners of the flag, raised it, and simultaneously side-stepped into the clearing between the coffin and attendees. We folded it lengthwise together, then I held it fast as he slowly folded it toward me. When he reached the stars of the flag, he held the folded portion open and I tucked in the remainder. He held it to his chest, straightened it, and handed it to me. He then saluted and walked off.
I rotated the flag in my hands so that the broad side was facing out, then turned toward the elderly widow. As I slowly walked toward her, the same thoughts crossed through my mind that come at every funeral: How long were they married? What is it like to lose your best friend after decades of life together? What were they like when they were young together? I reached her seat and got down into a semi-kneeling position so that I could look her in the eyes.
"On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation of your loved one's honorable and faithful service."
I always emphasize certain portions of that script when I speak, and it never comes across as well-rehearsed. I always emphasize the "our" so that my own care and love in known, even in this informal script.
After I stopped speaking, I slowly rose to the feet, snapped to attention, and saluted--maintaining eye contact with her the entire time. I then did a right-face and walked away and joined MSG in walking back to our vehicle. As I peeled off the white gloves and removed my jacket and head gear, an older woman walked up to me and said "I know you do a lot of these, but it really seemed like you cared. Thank you."
"Ma'am," I responded, "I care about each and every one." She said, "I can tell," and walked off.
When I got home several hours later, I was greeted by a "Daddy!" and was able to scoop up my little boy. I love returning to him and our baby girl after a funeral. Life screams out against death. Some day, their mother and I will pass into glory. A few decades later, in God's grace, they will follow. And I hope and pray that they, with their parents, will be able to stare death in the eyes, much as I stared at that dear widow in the eyes--without fear and full of longing for the future world, where pain and death will be put under the feet of our Savior.
On Thursday, I traveled with the MSG to our second funeral of the week--several hours west in the mountains of West Virginia. We passed through old towns dating back to the 1700s, winding through verdant pastures and lush mountainsides in the process. When we arrived in our particular mountainside destination, we had to venture off the known map in order to find the cemetery.
In this remote location, we would be burying a World War Two veteran. Joining us on this mission were about eight American Legion vets, ranging from the sixties to eighties in terms of age (MSG will be there in a few years). Most of them date back to the Vietnam era. I was proud to serve alongside of them in conducting this funeral.
A few remarks were given of this deceased hero, and then we were given the reigns. MSG called every to stand for the presentation of military honors. The two of us, posted on either side of the coffin, turned in and slowly raised a salute to the flag. The firing team fired off three volleys, and TAPS sounded on the bugle. When the bugle stopped, MSG and I slowly lowered our salutes, grabbed the corners of the flag, raised it, and simultaneously side-stepped into the clearing between the coffin and attendees. We folded it lengthwise together, then I held it fast as he slowly folded it toward me. When he reached the stars of the flag, he held the folded portion open and I tucked in the remainder. He held it to his chest, straightened it, and handed it to me. He then saluted and walked off.
I rotated the flag in my hands so that the broad side was facing out, then turned toward the elderly widow. As I slowly walked toward her, the same thoughts crossed through my mind that come at every funeral: How long were they married? What is it like to lose your best friend after decades of life together? What were they like when they were young together? I reached her seat and got down into a semi-kneeling position so that I could look her in the eyes.
"On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation of your loved one's honorable and faithful service."
I always emphasize certain portions of that script when I speak, and it never comes across as well-rehearsed. I always emphasize the "our" so that my own care and love in known, even in this informal script.
After I stopped speaking, I slowly rose to the feet, snapped to attention, and saluted--maintaining eye contact with her the entire time. I then did a right-face and walked away and joined MSG in walking back to our vehicle. As I peeled off the white gloves and removed my jacket and head gear, an older woman walked up to me and said "I know you do a lot of these, but it really seemed like you cared. Thank you."
"Ma'am," I responded, "I care about each and every one." She said, "I can tell," and walked off.
When I got home several hours later, I was greeted by a "Daddy!" and was able to scoop up my little boy. I love returning to him and our baby girl after a funeral. Life screams out against death. Some day, their mother and I will pass into glory. A few decades later, in God's grace, they will follow. And I hope and pray that they, with their parents, will be able to stare death in the eyes, much as I stared at that dear widow in the eyes--without fear and full of longing for the future world, where pain and death will be put under the feet of our Savior.
28.1.15
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.
26.1.15
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
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