He smiled and greeted me, though I'd only met him once before. He visited his mom last summer, came to church with her and sang us a song. Then, he was off for Iraq. I prayed for him every day. Him and Shaun and Rob, and now Timo – as well as all the others in harm's way.
As his friends left, his mom called, and she reminded him of who I was. She had to be a Grandma because his wife had come down with a nasty intestinal virus. He confided in her that he was having trouble with anxiety today, and they discussed the possibility of it being connected to the medications he was on. They prayed together. I held his hand. The one that was at the end of the wounded arm. The hand was cool to the touch. But his eyes were brown, and bright.
He told me he didn't know how to explain it. I said that was okay. I told my own story of an emotional moment that helped me understand that he couldn't find the words. My story communicated the frustration he was feeling. Perhaps mostly it talked about the lack of control. And, having been the captain of the largest platoon in his company, he would have a certain feeling for control.
Anyway, he seemed to relax. A little. Then he leaned his head back and cried out, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus." I remembered him singing at church, and I sang out loud, "Sweetest name I know." On the next line, he joined in. We finished the chorus and went into the first verse. He couldn't finish it. "Fear not I am with thee, Peace, be still, in all of life's ebb and flow."
His life was ebbing; it was flowing. He didn't fear, but he had been in the valley of the shadow of death, and was walking away from it still. He had been within 15 feet of a mortar going off in a building on base. Shrapnel blew a big hole in his arm. It tore into some muscles in his opposite leg. It put two small holes in his neck. It put a nifty scratch on his chin that's going to be better than Harrison Ford's. We all have to ask, "How did it miss his body?" Only the love of God, reaching down to shield a man surrounded by a cloud of prayer. Who is this man?
He couldn't finish the song. He laid his head back on his pillow and cried while I sang that verse. Then we sang another hymn. And another. No one came in the room. No one but Jesus joined our praise session. He prayed out loud, thanking God for being able to see the changing of the colors. He thanked Him for being able to smell the blooming of spring. He thanked Him for the sun that bakes the ground in the summer. He thanked Him for his lovely wife, and two wonderful sons that were such blessings to him. He thanked Him for the people that had been praying for him. I thanked God that He has promised that His joy would be our strength, and that he had made that strength so evident in this warrior, who sang, "Jesus Loves Me," in the ambulance ride after the blast. I thanked God for the many more like him, who are willing to serve, without question, for something higher than themselves. I thanked Him that He had promised never to leave us, nor give us more than we could handle with Him at our side.
We sat in quiet. Then we talked about kids. And motorcycles. And facts. We live by faith, not by feeling. Our faith is a fact. Another fact was that although he felt he couldn't get a deep breath, he still had 100 percent oxygen saturation in his blood. The fact was, he was breathing just fine. We talked about Sonic, and he is looking forward to the day he can drive through and place his own order.
I told him I would leave, if he needed to be alone, and it wouldn't hurt my feelings. I told him, also, that I could stay because I had no commitments. He said he would like me to stay. I held his cool hand, as he pulled the covers up to his neck. I refilled his water bottle. I turned the table fan for him. I suggested pizza for dinner and he said that sounded good. The doctors and nurses made their appointed rounds, and made some changes in his meds.
He told me later that he had wondered what I might do when he really started getting anxious. He didn't know if I would think he was going crazy. I think he worried I might turn and run. But we can't run from our appointed duties. It was a pleasure. It was a blessing. It was an honor, to have been called by God to serve as His hands and feet that afternoon, and to hold the hand of a wounded warrior.
