Letters from Afghanistan

Kinda a hard day today.
Although I see similar injured casualties and horrific trauma come through almost daily, today was especial rough. 3 Soldiers were killed and 2 were brought here after an IED blast and ambush. Both on the ventilator, with one requiring a right arm amputee and left leg, below the knee amputee. The other had to have a bilateral amputee. Both with multiple frag injuries and GSWs. All I could think of was how much these guys sacrifice. One had a tattoo on his chest, "Death before Dishonor". It was overwhelming to see these men live out what so many Americans take for granted. They honor me, by just being in that bed. It is hard to explain. All I could do was think of their families. I just couldn't shake the image of their kids, their wives, or their parents (especially their mother's). They probably don't even know yet. I couldn't imagine the mother's or wife's grief when they learn. Although the road for them is so very long, eventually these two will be back with their families. These two will pull through. Then it hit me hard, the other three, the three that died, wont. Their families don't even know what has happened yet. They do not even know that their last conversation, last email, last kiss would have been be truly their last. Immediately grief overwhelmed me like a thick black fog. I couldn't move. Then, I saw a group of people coming toward them. A bunch of colonels, a general and such. I didn't much give it thought. I've seen it all before. They came, seemed truly concerned and bothered by what they saw. Even the battle hardened are not use to seeing what we see every day. Eventually they left, but a fairly large black man stood there, left behind. His pain was palpable. It crushed me to see him unable to hold his composure. He wept. As I placed my hand on his shoulder, I realized he was their First Sergeant. It didn't dawn on me till that second to how much this type of pain crosses all lines, even race. Both the Soldiers were white and he wept as if they were his own children. They were. How much our society, our churches, and our schools could learn from what these men have learned? I told the 1SG that they were going to pull through. "Talk to them" I said. "Hearing is the first thing that comes back". But I then suddenly realized, he was carrying much more grief than from just these two in front of him. They were here, in bad shape, but he had three others that didn't make it this far. Three fathers, three sons, three husbands, three ... dear God, please be with their families. Hold them tight, wipe their tears, and give them comfort in the midst of their pain. Oh how they need the arms of their Creator wrapped solidly around them, absorbing their pain, buffering their grief, taking on their despair as only He can. Although I wish I could burden their pain for them, I cannot.
But He can. 2 Cor. 1:3-4

This one was written after a particularly difficult day, entitled "Today":

Today,

These hands have cupped the face of a crying child, soothing him in a language he doesn’t understand. He is confused by the pain he did not expect, scared because he is alone, and dismayed because the sheets lay flat over where his legs use to be.

These arms have lifted massive Marines from gurneys to beds with the gentleness like that of a young father as he holds his first born son for the first time. He does so carefully, due to the fragile being in his hands. These are the same Marines who themselves have carried their comrades to safety countless times in battle, now they are being lifted with the same care and compassion.

These eyes have wept for the parents, wives, and children. Tears have been shed over their bodies in place of their own loved ones, no different as if these were one of my own sons.

These ears have heard the earnest and selfless question of a Soldier who asks how his buddy is doing in the next bed over, although he himself is laying there with horrific injuries, unmeasurable pain, and is struggling for every breath. He doesn’t think twice about using what precious breath he can muster to ask about his friend.

I have smelled the carnage of war, cordite, fresh blood, and burnt flesh. Death tries to incapacitate me with such putrid aroma, only to be shielded by a Divine barrier which allows me to press on with the task at hand.

These boots have stood in the blood of our heroes as it fills the trauma bay floor as we fight as ferociously for their lives against Death’s unrelenting laughter. We come to battle the Grave’s sting with no less tenacity than that of what the Soldier laying there fought against the enemy just moments prior.

These knees have collapsed to the ground in intense prayer for the next breath of the valiant. Prayers where words are not spoken, but where my spirit moans out to the Creator for mercy. The fervor of these prayers are only second to that of a mother’s plea for her child at death’s threshold.

This heart has burdened fear, sorrow, despair, hopelessness, exhaustion, anger and weakness only to be lifted by the everlasting power of my Savior. He shoulders all my burdens and carries me through the sand. He replaces it with hope, peace, love, strength, and courage. He is my Tower, my refuge. I am able to do what I do, solely because of Him.

Now that today is finished, I have what I need for tomorrow.
I am ready.