Hand Holding, Things Held, and Being Held

It’s been ten years since I entered ordained ministry. One day when I served as a chaplain on campus I remember expressing resentment about “having to hold people’s hands.” My resentment came from what seemed to me to be simple matters of decision making. Never mind the fact that I often sought out counsel from mentors, professors, and pastors to help me through my tough times. I sometimes felt entitled because I had “difficult” or “special” issues—things that were very real to me. I deserved hand holding…

I remember serving in a congregation where a fuss was made about Passing the Peace. Some thought it was unsanitary and a way that could pass germs. I thought it had more to do with how uncomfortable people were with each other. So, I became adamant that acknowledging each other by Passing the Peace in the liturgy was all the more important. I was going to have the congregation do it kicking and screaming. I didn’t care. Passing the Peace was for their own good I told myself.

Over the years, I have held many persons hands figuratively and in prayer. I have held the hands of strong persons falling apart and weak persons becoming stronger. I have held the hands of the dying and the new born. I have held the hands of the lonely and I have clasped hands with others in the joy of a wedding ceremony. I have held the hands of nervous persons and individuals who have been confused. I have held the hand of homeless persons, psych patients, the morbidly obese, drunkards, and sex addicts. My hand has grasped, pulled, and sometimes rested in the hand of a lover. When with others, I sometimes ask to hold hands and other times I simply reach out trusting my intuition that a person is seeking this form of touch.

As a chaplain to soldiers, I have held hands with men who are physically much stronger than me, with my slender and soft fingers pressed together in thicker skin that is much more used to hard work. Several times, I have had soldiers gather in a circle holding each other arm in arm so that they could pray before a mission. A couple of years ago at a National Guard Annual Training, a Vietnam era soldier, held hands with me as he told me that he laid his Bronze Star in the casket of his young son.

As a soldier, I haven shaken the hands of persons who if I saw walking down the street in my civilian life, I would walk on the opposite side. And also, I have shaken the hands of persons who I ask myself, “Why?” In my time in theater, I have shaken the hands of PV1’s to Generals. As a humanitarian, I have held the hands of Iraqi citizens and poor children. As a minister, I have held the hand of those who grieve tremendous losses and who will never be the same. As "one on the scene" I have held up I.V.'s with my one hand while manually pumping blood through a warming device attached to a critically injured soldier. I have held weapons and fired them finding the power in them frightening and alluring. I have held up bread and wine with the same hands. I have held a salute for higher officers, the flag and in memorials.

While running a course a 0430 in the morning, as I led in a run my hands held sweat and warm air. There was a young woman for whom the run was a struggle. When she arrived at the finish line she collapsed. We held her so she could stand. I patted her eyes with cool water and held her head feeling the neatly tied corn rows. I have held the phone in my hands as I helped other soldiers make a morale call and when I have called home to hear my mother's voice.

In the service, hands are everywhere. They belong to black soldiers, Hispanic soldiers, “Redneck” soldiers, Samoan, soldiers of Asian decent, Woman soldiers, gay and lesbian soldiers, married soldiers, divorced and remarried soldiers, single soldiers, white soldiers, the "ate up" and the "squared away." And on and on. Hands are everywhere. They’ve been trained to handle weapons, repair tanks, move supplies, write orders, create memos, transcribe awards, hoist "Old Glory," and perform surgery. They are active hands and sometimes they are hands that are utterly still in the all too few hours of sleep. Sometimes these hands have harmed unjustly, or have reached out in courage. Too often in war these hands become injured, severed or remain attached to a body forever drained of life.

I often have thought of myself as a weakling in life—afraid of risks, too easily bullied, afraid to step out in the field of life or the field of contest for fear of ridicule or that my body is not as coordinated or my will not as aggressive as others. It is truly a mystery. A soldier walked into my office who is probably best described as a cultural, non-practicing and seeking Jew. He was dealing with being humiliated. And in the midst of all of it, he retained his earthy humor and his struggle before God. I identified with him and realized that I was becoming angry. I made a fist with my hand. Then I let myself realize that his struggle is not my struggle, but I could hold him. And in this case I asked if I could hug him. I hugged him as a friend. After all this time, I feel most human and most whole when I have the privilege to hold another. In these times, weakness is transcended. It does not exist. Neither does strength nor the power to harm or to be harmed. When I reflect on these moments, I feel as if I have held a familiar hand one that Always Has Been There.

Ways of Exiting

I ended up remaining in Rustamiyah a week longer than intended. Just as my days there were coming to a close, a young soldier from another unit committed suicide. From what I heard he was a soldier who was looking forward to a future. He showed no signs of wanting to leave this world. What we do know is that he just gotten off the phone with a girlfriend back home that broke up with him. The military folks speak of suicide as “the permanent solution to a temporary problem.” Late teens, early twenty-somethings don’t have the perspective of time and experience. So much for them is all or nothing. This is one of the reasons that they can be combat soldiers. They can more easily face being in the position of risking everything.

I decided to attend the memorial service because I felt it was my duty. I felt it was my duty as a chaplain and as another human who has known the demon that draws the mind and soul toward “the easy fix.” It was a sad occasion. In situations as these, command does not want “full military honors” given. Nor do they invite higher ranking to attend. It is mostly a closed affair for the unit. The memorial was attended by forty or more soldiers. During his reflection, a brave soldier said the words that I had wished I had heard for the memorial of SPC Carlson—“I loved him.” The sermon included the Army’s mantra…”we will continue the mission.”

Instead of the usual flags and symbols of a fallen soldier, the front stage of the room was bare except for a recently painted portrait. Local Iraqi artists will paint portraits from photographs. These seem to be popular as mementos, sending to sweethearts and families. What made this scene hard was the fact that when the service ended, soldiers didn’t know what to do. (Usually military honors are given at the end of the service and the soldiers will march out after saluting the helmet upon the upright M-16 with boots in front.) Some soldiers stood and simply walked out. Others sat on the bench for a long while stunned and consoling each other. Some stood in front of the portrait. And a few saluted the portrait. We grope in the face of such losses. Some military folks find these to be “dishonorable” deaths. I don’t agree. The soldier was overcome by an enemy.

The day that CH Keough was to return from RR, a team of soldiers had a couple of missions in the city including going to the airport to pick CH K and the CSM up. On their way, one of the vehicles was hit by a devastating “platter charge” which blew a hole the size of a basketball in the side of the up-armored vehicle. The projectile instantaneously killed SSG Contreras the TC (trip commander) seated in the front passenger’s seat. All others in the vehicle were fine. The female gunner was hit in the leg by some blunt object; very likely the TC’s Kevlar helmet. She seemed fine other than some bruising and emotional trauma. CH K’s Chaplain’s Assistant, SPC Miller was seated right behind the TC. He caught a tiny piece of shrapnel to the hand.

CH W, CH K and I decided that my remaining in Rustamiyah another week through the memorial service made sense. The Ramp Ceremony was a solemn event. Soldiers gathered in ranks and waited for a helicopter to arrive. Once SSG C’s remains were unloaded from an ambulance all soldiers stood at attention and gave a salute. We remained in this position until the helicopter was loaded and flew off.

SSG Contreras was a no-nonsense mission focused soldier who was beloved by many. He was warm hearted and loved to nap. He was about to go on leave to see his mother and daughter. He was a few days away from a birthday. (In fact, the July birthdays were celebrated a couple days before the memorial service.) SSG Contreras’ memorial service included full military honors and was attended by many visiting officers and unit representatives. A slide show played on a loop prior to the service showing SGT Contreras “doing his thing” among his soldiers. At the close of the service all in attendance in the filled-beyond-capacity chapel gave a final salute. Many laid small tokens (coins and other items) at the place where SSG Contreras’ empty boots stood. To either side were the posthumous awards of Purple Heart and Bronze Star.

Because of the unforeseen circumstances, my goodbyes to the 519 MP’s got prolonged. No sooner had the commander presented me with a desk plaque in thanks, the meeting was interrupted by the news of the attack. The plaque sat on a chair for a couple of days before I could pick it up again. Right before the memorial service, several of the MP’s were socializing in CH K’s office. One of the Sergeant Majors asked me if I got my coin. He instructed a soldier to get one from his desk. The Viper coin is by far one of the most impressive military coins that I have seen. The individually registered coins are shaped like a Viper’s head about to strike. CH K gave me a t-shirt with a silly looking snake on the front. I was honored. What did I do that no other person in my place wouldn’t have done? The draw to belong is very powerful in the military, especially during wartime.

The ministry allows me to belong more than what I feel I deserve and yet allows me to say goodbye as best as I can when the time has come.

A mentor once said to me that two of the most important things one will ever do is say “hello” and say “goodbye.” She said that how we do these things says a great deal of who we are as people. Every time I do either one of these two, I remember that I am still learning how until the day when--whether I am ready or not--I will do it for the final time. We are always saying “hello” and “goodbye”, “goodbye” and “hello.”

Changing Scenery

It was the truly the “eleventh hour” when my orders arrived. The 228th FSB was at Camp Arafjan spending the last few days before redeploying. I kept checking my email to find out if my extension was a “go” or not. The dust storms were cinematic at times with wild hot winds beating sand on us as soldiers went from tent to tent or tent to chow hall. During the evenings the winds would often completely die down and the sky would clear. Soldiers would come out and play volleyball under mercury lights into the early morning hours. I had the chance to attend worship with some of my soldiers and sit in the pews near with them. I sat with one couple who had been reprimanded for being together on off hours. They welcomed me as we sat and listened to an Korean preacher who was difficult to understand.

Just as a reminder of how small the Army is the brigade Captain handling my transition turned out to be an officer that shared the same barracks back at Camp Shelby the year before. When my orders arrived, CPT Martin told me that I could make the drive with him to Ar Aseleem in my PT uniform. I didn’t realize we were just going up the road. It was truly a ghost ride. We drove by “Death Highway” where in the first Gulf War; many were killed here while sitting in their vehicles along the highway near the boarder with Kuwait. There were dozens of burnt out hulks of vehicles front to back-partly covered in sand. Signs along the highway instructed that photography was forbidden. It was as if I were looking at hell frozen in time.

Once again I was in an in-between time as I waited for my flight. From being among the many, now I would be among the very few wearing the Keystone patch upon my sleeve. Once again, I carried the weight of duffle bags and books with which I couldn’t part. And the laptop, of course. The flight was short, and the scenery was new. I was now on the outskirts of Baghdad where there were more soldiers and far more civilian contractors than I had ever seen before. CH (MAJ) Kenworthy, a tall thin Episcopal priest picked me up with his Chaplain Assistant, SGT Jones. We drove by a couple of lakes and a bunch of trees. The next day, after meeting the BDE Chaplain, CH (MAJ) Williamson I got a more complete picture of the base(s).

“Here” was actually (at least) a couple of distinct bases: Camp Liberty and Camp Victory. Camp Liberty was mostly flat with some small hills, trees and lakes. And miles of trailers! This area was once one of Saddam’s game preserves where he and his fellow Baathists would come to hunt. (I believe they kept the area stocked.) Camp Victory has a complex of faux palaces around a lake. One is now the Multi National Head Quarters. All of these were Baathist retreats.

CH Williamson keeps his office in one of the Division “palaces” on the waterfront. He is a squat talkative man from Louisiana. When I stepped inside his office, I noticed from floor to ceiling dozens of bags and cans of coffee. He explains that this is part of his ministry. But at first glance it looks like he is running an import-export business. Later, in conversation with other chaplains, I refer to him as Chaplain (Juan) Valdez. CH Williamson gives me his rules of operation talk and then shows me what he does to de-stress. He tosses me a couple of single packs of Apple-Jacks cereal and we walk outside on to the concrete platform next to the lake. There is a sculpture of three dauphins about 50 feet out. He starts tossing some of the cereal into the water. Dozens of large carp come near the surface of the water and gobble up the cereal. I join in. It is a joyful moment. So much abundance! CH Williamson explains that the fish used to eat a special grass that grows in the pond. But now, due to the fact that soldiers have been generously feeding the fish the grass must be harvested because the fish have stopped eating it.

On a regular basis one can see a couple of Iraqis in a boat tearing out the grasses. Many of them choose to fish here as well. Once in a while an American soldier will tell them that fishing really isn’t allowed. Iraqis have replied that it is their birthright since they endured under Saddam’s regime. What could anyone possibly reply to such a statement?

I didn’t get too comfortable in my new surroundings. A few days after meeting the staff members of the 372nd MP BN from Washington, DC I was off again. The 372nd is 90% African American. They are in charge of several companies of MP’s. The companies are “add-on” and sometimes get handed off to other BN’s. Right now we are in the process of adding more companies to our BN in order to “secure Baghdad.” I was “asked” by the brigade chaplain if I would be willing to “cover down” for a chaplain who was going on leave.

So, I was off to Rustamiyah--by convoy. Camp Rustamiyah is in Southern Baghdad behind a garbage dump and next to a sewage plant. The flies were relentless. But the 519 MP BN was among the warmest units that I have come across. They were lead by a no-nonsense LTC, whose name was Bazzonotti. He was from Boston and looked like Alfonse D’Mato, but had a much better sense of humor as far as I could tell. He enjoyed giving awards to the troops but didn’t hold back his criticism either. I knew that we were going to get along fine when he asked me during a large meeting if I had any thoughts on suicide prevention. I told him “Just say no.” “Just say no.” he replied dryly. “Is that it, chaplain? Just say no?” And then I gave a few more words on how those considering suicide don’t always give the classic indicators. A couple weeks later a young specialist, who had all sorts of plans for the future and who was known as a happy and capable person, shot himself on being jilted by his girlfriend. (I will write more on this in a later piece.)

The chaplain, CH Keough was an energetic former Roman Catholic turned Southern Baptist. He was a surfer dad and injected his sermons with hang-loose hand signals. The sermons, of course, were held after long “sing in the dark in front of the projection screen hymns. Attendance was very good at these Wednesday night as Sunday worship services. (In the chaplaincy, every day is Sunday because of the missions and various schedules of the troops.) This was an active duty unit from FT Hood. They were thoroughly soldiers and loved what they were doing (for the most part). CH Keough was amazingly relaxed and warm with me. He is an active chaplain. In other words, he goes out on missions regularly. He had in a previous life been an enlisted soldier and he knows the ways and wants of soldiers. I was to simply stand-in for him while he was away. For some reason, the BDE chaplain, Williamson wanted to keep coming down and do CH Keough’s service even though it involved a potentially dangerous drive over. I just couldn’t see sitting around and being passive, so I spoke with him and we agreed that I would lead one service. He still emailed back to CH Keough to see if it was OK… I think there is a little suspicion of a “liberal” chaplain. I have my biases as well, but I try project Christian tolerance and trust, by letting go to serve practicality and to serve the whole. I doubt if a couple of sermons from a conservative preacher in a liberal congregation would “change” people, just as it is on the other side of the coin.

So, Rustamiyah with its mortar attacks, smell of fish heads mixed with the aroma of fabric softener from the large laundry facility, latrines at 150 degrees, and occasional fires due to Iraqi wiring and overworked air conditioners became my temporary home. And I loved it…because of the soldiers.