In the newsletter at work this morning....
Yesterday was Memorial Day. The following was sent through a listserv for chaplains. It was written by the Rev. Norris Burkes, an Air Force chaplain for 18 years and now a chaplain with the California National Guard. It is a poignant reminder of why we celebrate Memorial Day and what sacrifices individuals and families have made for our country.
CASUALTY NOTIFICATION TEAM:
For me, Memorial Day has a face. It is the face of the family members
whose loved one made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. Since 9/11,
I’ve met these faces in at least 30 homes in my community.
If I could introduce you to these families, I would. But because I can't,
I'd like you to imagine today that you've joined my casualty notification
team.
We unite with our team of four inside a nondescript military office where
we watch a training video, map our route to the home of a newly widowed
woman and memorize our scripted lines. The commander will deliver the badnews, the medic will watch for signs of stress, and you and I will offer
pastoral care.
Within the hour of being paged out of our everyday routines, we drive our
dark blue military sedan into a civilian neighborhood where we find an
address that doesn’t want to be found. As we step from the car, we look
much like a small parade formation, a living breathing cliché.
We park a few hundred yards from the house and you use the walking time to ask me questions.
"Will this notification be like your previous ones?" you ask. "How long
will we stay?" and "How will the people respond?" you want to know. I tell
you that the only certainty is that my past notifications will give us no
working schematic for this day. Nothing about these no-notice visits is
ever predictable.
All I can say is that in the past I‘ve heard an anguished father launch
into a political diatribe blaming the president for his son's death. I
recall another visit where I interrupted a child's birthday party, and in
yet another instance, I recount stopping a family's airport reunion to
tell them their son wasn't on the plane.
You shake your head and I stare at the Disney welcome mat while the
commander knocks on the door. I catch a side-glance of the commander
mouthing his script. It's a script that will go something like this:
"Are you Mrs. John E. Jones?"
"Yes."
"Is your husband Capt. John E. Jones?"
"Yes."
"Ma'am, the Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deep
regret."
It may seem rote, but the script is the only way we all get through
without cracking. Our effort is compassionate, but professional. Of
course, it'll be unusual if we aren't interrupted by the sobbing screams
of denial, but we will stay with our lines until they are delivered.
Fortunately, you're not a part of this team today. Gratefully this column
is just a composite script of several of my team experiences.
However, it is a script that churns in the mind of every person who has
ever served in the military. Every person who wears the uniform of this
country fears that their family may one day hear these words of regret
from a team such as ours. Yet, despite their fear, they deploy. They do
their jobs and most of them come home.
So, as we pause this weekend to memorialize the sacrifices made by these
few, let us imagine being on the color guard at the funeral as a stiff
commander accepts a folded flag from his detail and presents it to this
family:
"On behalf of the president of the United States and a grateful nation,"
he says, "please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for
service to our country. God bless you and this family, and God bless the United States of America."