Learning to Grieve (All Over Again)

I keep looking at the photograph of SPC C. There is something that haunts me even though I have a long history of working with the dead. I have worked in funeral homes, in a morgue, assisted in procuring organ donations, catalogued unidentified remains and worked with grieving parents in a Neonatal unit. There is something about this young soldier’s story that leaves me unsettled. He was a cook by trade who volunteered to be on the QRF. In the photo we have for release, he has the steel eyed look of a soldier. I recall when we took these photographs. We were about to fly to Kuwait from Camp Shelby. Several of the soldiers used the foil of dark humor and referred to these as their “Obit Photos.” An American flag is draped behind each one of us.

In a photograph I later saw on an internet database of fallen soldiers, SPC C looks more like a National Guardsman than regular Army. He's a boy with a beret. One of the characteristics of Guard communities is that we all know each other. We all live near one another. It was only a matter of days before I spoke with the soldier who suggested to SPC C to “do something with his life” and join the Guard. This was a SGT from Allentown struggling with some anger issues of his own. As we casually conversed in the gym one evening, he told me that he has tried to encourage young men to take a direction with their lives. This direction makes no sense. I continue studying the photograph plenty of times after all the official business is over. I am saddened.

I earnestly believed that I was walking that fine line between not being to intrusive and sending clues that I was available to handle the work of the memorial service among SPC C’s unit members. I touched based with the LT and the SGT. The CO and SGM each asked me to be present while CID interviewed each of the SWA hut mates. There was no biting on the bait. I began to feel frustrated that I was not going to have anything real to say to the gathered. I hate relying on platitudes and generalizations. I asked the SGT to meet with me. I tried to be gentle, but something was happening here that reeked of denial. I was beginning to sense there were psychic land mines around; I itched. As a new SGT, I reminded him that he was no longer one of the boys—he was a “them” like me.

A shower did not ease my mind. The memorial service was tomorrow. I had put a bulletin together, alerted the choir, selected scripture and as of yet knew little about who of his friends would speak and what they would say. (There have been instances of inappropriate reflections. Plus, I had experience from working with a College Chaplain who would both help students with their pieces and serve as gatekeeper. She had a more motherly touch than I.) I should have had something by now. My gut told me that they were avoiding this. I decided that it was time to go pay a visit. Disaster. I took it too personally and the “conversation” turned into a shouting match. One soldier accused me of telling him how he should grieve. The stocky soldier looked at me incredulously when I stated that their actions were lacking in “personal courage.” “YES, I AM JUDGING YOU!” I yelled as I stomped into the night as I passed the one soldier smoking on the back of the SWA hut. Later I would express doubts to their LT about how I handled the matter. The LT, who was beside himself about the death and the possibility of drug involvement, said “They need to grow up sometime.”

This was not the end of the push-pull, however. At the rehearsal, I was asked if there would be any “open time” for reflections from the congregation. Of course, I said “yes” and it was the right thing to do. One of the friends created a slide show, but included a Country Western song that was all glory and America and soldiers. I had already prepared the choir to sing a “goodbye” tribute. Another officer told the soldier that it would be OK. I took control of the situation and said, “No.” Now I had to deal with an officer who was senior to me who decided that he was in charge of the memorial service. This was confrontational, but I didn’t back down because I had all legality behind me and I knew that this was all a part of the anxiety and individuals trying to gain control in a situation in which they felt helpless.

The memorial service went especially well. The soldiers truly rose to the occasion. There was a young black man who was a member of the QRF who was present the night of my confrontation. He hadn’t said a word. In fact, he was always quiet and dutiful. He had the presence of a well loved child who was making his way in the world. He surprised me (and perhaps many others) when he came to the lectern and delivered a thoughtful and sensitive reflection surpassing many I heard on the college campus. I was touched and proud of him. The stocky Hispanic boy-man also rose to the occasion. SPC M, did not. He had his reasons, I’m sure, and needed to mourn his way—as we all do. I said what I thought needed to be said so that he might not walk away from this experience with residual guilt. Putting on the prophet’s mantle is not usually what is expected of a chaplain. It is often necessary. But, it is not my job to save people from their foibles. I am mostly called to help clean up in the wake of human foibles.

I spoke of heartbreak. I talked about the care of the medics. I said that soldiers are more prepared to deal with loss of their comrades due to combat. I preached that it was OK to be angry at God. I still look at the picture. What a waste. Only a loving God could bring any good about from this loss. So we grope in the dark until the light comes. Or we just pretend it didn’t happen at all. SPC C was a hero. We don’t talk about the dark place to which he went to hide from the pain. I put gauze on the community’s wound. There is little more I can do.