Sending My Son back to College War
By Charles Rush
I Sam. 17: 4-12, 16-30 and Mk. 9: 33-38
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This sermon formed the basis of an essay entitled
A Brief Visit from my Soldier Son
published in the
New York Times
on November 8, 2009 in the "Style" section.
It can be viewed online here:
www.nytimes.com/2009/11/08/fashion/08love.html.
It is part of a series on "Modern Love".
Portions of the text are covered by the New York Times copyright.
Rev. Rush wants you to know that his son and daughter-in-law did complete their
military service safely. They now live back in the US and are the proud parents
of a baby girl.
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a few years ago, as we turned towards
Labor Day, parents across the nation brought the
summer to a close and began preparing their children for school. When my
children were little we spent the week on Martha's Vineyard,
in fleece and jean jackets around
fires on the beach at Menemsha Harbor as the warm glow of summer gave way
to the early chill of autumn. The crisp air of the evening directed our
attention back towards the routines of school and the structure of learning. When
my oldest two graduated high school, we joined that long line of cars and SUVs
dropping kids off at college, packed to the gills with all the accoutrements
that our college kids need to live.
I was thinking
about all of the rituals that attend preparing for learning this year because
my son was on leave from Afghanistan
and I spent a couple days with him
preparing to return, not to college, but to war – specifically
the passes north of Kandahar between
Afghanistan and
Pakistan.
Instead of comparing the features
of the latest line of laptops or picking out an alarm clock, we were standing
in the hunting section of Ray's sporting goods store purchasing every last can
of spray paint to camouflage gear.
It is a
strange thing that your child can be on the front lines, scouting the mountains
of Afghanistan
for Al Qaeda but still able to call
you on your cell phone at the beach. But that is precisely what he did a month
earlier from a satellite phone, the reception so clear it sounded like he was
right down the road. He was calling to tell his mother that he had secured leave,
would be coming home, and… he wanted to get married. The marriage part was not
a complete surprise but we only had two weeks to prepare for the big event.
I assumed that
this would only be a modest event, given the short notice and the fact that everyone
is on vacation in August. I pictured a few family members at the beach with a
couple of friends as well. I underestimated the depth of support that our
friends and neighbors have for our soldiers. The word spread quickly around our
small town and people called us to volunteer their help with every aspect of
the wedding.
My son and his
fiancée flew from Kandahar to Uzbekistan to Kuwait City and then to Frankfurt where they were on standby and were
the last two people on the plane to Newark. The pilot on the plane announced to
the passengers that they were on leave from Afghanistan and coming home to get married. They
were easy for the other passengers to spot since they were in their fatigues,
the only clothes they are allowed to wear on active duty. When they got on the
plane the passengers stood up and applauded.
I picked them
up at the airport, more than a little choked up to see
them still in uniform, needing a shower from the long journey. Unlike our
college kids who can fill a Chevy Suburban and then some, all the gear they
needed – almost all the gear my son has – was packed in
two Army issue backpacks. My son hugged me. He is strong now, very strong, and
able to sleep anywhere at any time.
We put
together a slide show of their childhoods for the rehearsal dinner. It was a
delightful review of just what outdoor people both of them are, filled with the
laughter that brothers and sisters poke at one another at shared memories. In
the middle of the show I had a moment of emotional weakness, remembering a
similar slide show that someone put together for a funeral I had recently
attended. Anxiety in the face of death hovers around family members of those in
active duty. Sometimes you try to banish it from consciousness as though
reflecting on it might bring bad luck. Sometimes you try to bargain with it,
hoping to control what is not controllable. But it is always there and it is
deeply fearful. I never want to pass old photos around and talk about how great
my son was when he was alive. And the only thing I think we can do that is
spiritually productive with this anxiety is to continue to celebrate the wonder
and goodness of life in the midst of it. What better place to do that than a
wedding.
Far from just
the family at the beach, the church actually filled up with my son's Lacrosse
friends from high school who had delayed returning to college to be there for
this event. They were respectful but surely curious at the spectacle too. My
son was a bit of a wild man in high school and not someone anyone would have
predicted would be the first to be married. All these kids have changed and
each has been shaped by the different worlds they inhabit. In the college
world, especially the fraternity world, one does everything one can to avoid
commitment in relationships. You work full-time at keeping some distance. In
the world of the enlisted men and women, marriage is the norm because a premium
is placed on the virtue of loyalty and steadfast support. Every day, from basic
training right down to daily missions where you depend on one another for
survival and success, loyalty and people who can be counted on are what really
matter. The church was filled with beautiful young people, all looked so handsome in their suits
and evening dresses. We had representatives from
Georgetown, Middlebury, Duke, and Brown.
We had to have
the reception at our house as my son is just shy of 21. He is old enough to die
for his country and old enough to father children legally, but he is not old
enough to buy a beer. Not only did his
friends come, their parents came too, families who had grown up together.
It was probably the first time that some of
these parents had actually attended a party with their children – rather than
chase them down trying to put the party out...
What a delight to see 50-something women dancing with 20-year-old boys.
It was festive and the young people
behaved with decorum. But at one point, I did notice one of our juniors doing
a handstand on the keg, drinking beer upside down. 20-year-olds do things like
that. I couldn't help but think for a moment of
Lyndie England and a number of other 20-year-old
enlisted soldiers who made incredibly poor judgments that embarrassed our
country. I couldn't help but think what Colonels must think every month,
without in the least excusing their behavior. The fact
is that 20-year-olds are capable of astonishingly poor judgment. With the
demanding and stressful responsibilities that we place on our 20-year-old
soldiers, I am amazed that so little
poor judgment takes place overseas. Poor judgment is a daily routine at fraternity
houses across the country and most every one of us here can conjure up an image
of late night debauchery that got out of control, often fueled by alcohol or
other substances, that seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time.
Our soldiers in
Afghanistan
are on a dry deployment – no alcohol is available in country for the
entire year or more of their tour of duty. They don't have access to
money – just a credit card that can be used at the base – and there is
precious little entertainment even if you had cash. They are never off
duty, just occasionally back at the barracks. Often their missions in
the field go on for weeks at a time. During much of this, they have to
interact in a friendly manner with villagers that they are not sure are
friend or foe. They have to be friendly but also careful. Throughout
all of this, they are the front line ambassadors of our country.
That is a lot to ask from a young person.
My son has learned a surprising amount about
Afghanistan
in a short time. I was glad to hear that soldiers regularly dig wells
with pumps, as many villages have no safe drinking water. I was glad to
hear that they set up medical clinics and dispense medicine. You don't
read about how the military tries to address the local needs of the
villagers. He showed me some photos that he had taken of remote
villages in the mountains. He is very realistic about the limits of
what is possible in a country so remote, with villagers who have been
content with their way of life for the past several centuries and don't
see any real need to develop. He understands that Afghanis are wary of
Americans but he says they are more skittish of the Taliban; and he
notes that even if we suddenly left and the Taliban and Al Qaeda left
as well, it is not as if serenity would suddenly breakout in country,
because there is constant infighting among the clans. This has been
their way of life for longer than anyone can remember. He understands
the complexity on the ground and the ambiguity of trying to bring
democracy and American values to their country.
The night before he had to return, after we finished
purchasing camo paint, we drifted over to the gun cases. I was asking
about sidearms and he showed me the Glock 9 mm pistol that is standard
Army issue. He commented that officers complain about it from time to
time because you can shoot people two or three times and they keep on
running. I asked him how the Army prepares soldiers spiritually to kill
people. He responded that you train over and over and over so that when
you get there it isn't a big deal. I worry for him because I know it
is
a big deal. So far he has been able to avoid heavy sustained fire. But
I know that it is likely that he will engage in deadly combat. I know
that he will come back changed. I know that he will etch some memories
so deep on his soul that they cannot be erased. I want to stop and pray
for this burden right then and there. But I did not do it. I just put
my hand on his shoulder.
On the last night he was home, we had a family meal. He
and his wife were so rested from their two week leave, so full of the
energy of living their lives together, ready to make plans for a home.
But all of that has to wait until their tour is over. They have
different units overseas and won't even see each other for extended
periods of time. When they do they will literally set up their tent
together. But they never once complained. This is simply their duty.
When you drop your kids off at college, there are always a
couple of last minute items that they need you take care of and they
always need a couple hundred dollars for some extra bill they hadn't
anticipated. When my oldest two kids were in college, I used to say that
each hug cost me a hundred dollars – there was always a last minute
request. Nowadays it is two hundred minimum.
My son woke me up before dawn to take him and his wife to
the airport. It seems as though
I
woke my college kids up – and it was
never before dawn. But he was up, packed, ready to go, and surprisingly
alert for the hour because I knew he hadn't had much sleep. He may need
money but he never requests it and he has his own insurance too. We
were standing around the coffee pot alone. He handed me a file. Inside
was a bank account he had opened with their wedding gifts, the name of
the teller if I needed to speak to her, deposit slips and withdrawal
slips. Just behind that was a power of attorney for me to access his
account in the advent of his death.
As we drove to the airport, the car was quiet except for
mundane details of daily living. There were no words in any of us. I
got out of the car and pulled him and his wife close to me. I wanted to
hug him a long, long hug because the fear of death hovered over me.
I was weak and worried that it might be the last hug I would get from
him. But I did not do it because I have changed. I know now that what
they need from us is to be strong for them and to support them in what
they have to do. I kissed them both on the head and said, 'You know who
loves you.'
With that they turned and walked away. He still has that
shuffle that he had as a kid when he walks. Carrying a backpack with
his uniform, I could still see a toddler in footy pajamas dragging his
blanky behind him. But he is also strong. He had his arm around his
wife in support. And just like that he was gone.
It was raining outside. I felt like it might just be God
crying for our beloved country and the complicated war we have with
terror. Our tradition teaches us that God wants to heal that which is
wounded, that God wants to reconcile enemies and find children who
are lost, that God cares about all of the young people involved in this
conflict and wants us all to live in peace. If that is true, then God
must cry for all of the sons and daughters in this conflict who leave
their mothers and their homes on all sides at every level of
involvement, regardless of innocence or guilt.
May God bless our soldiers every one. We ask a lot of them.
We ask way more of them than we ask of ourselves – and way, way
more than we ask of our children. We ask them to grow up faster, handle
far more responsibility, with repercussions that are ultimate in
nature. We hold them to a higher standard, a more demanding standard so
that our world and the world for our kids won't have to be so
demanding. Amen.
© 2009
& The New York Times. All rights reserved.
