A Dying Man, Giving Up the Fight

My blog takes its title from a song by Sarah Hart (Amy Grant also covered it).  I find the song beautiful, and it truly captures my heart--sometimes, perhaps always, honesty is the best hallelujah we can offer.  It's the strength and beauty of a crocus popping through the spring snow.  It's the mother crying her baby back to sleep in the middle of the night.  It's the husband laying his wife of 50 years to rest.  It's broken.  But it's honest, and it's beautiful.  And that broken honesty is better than a hallelujah.

In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.

We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make.  And our tears were better than a hallelujah.

We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that.  But we still walked.  One foot in front of the other.  A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh.  And then a whispered prayer.  And then a sob.

And then the phone rang.

My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years.  One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack.  Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me.  He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had.  Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq.  You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do.  So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad.  Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life.  This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great.  We'll take it.  And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.

Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq.  We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch.  For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay.  He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well.  But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.

We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son.  A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost.  As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death.  Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did.  And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers.  There was a rifle salute and taps.  The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body.  He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.

And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can."  We did.  We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.

 But the memories . . . we can carry those further.  There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack.  Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared.  None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva.  And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself.  I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him.  Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.

Because that was Zack.  He was beautiful, and he was broken.  And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight."  He was tired, so he went Home.  And he was greeted with arms open to catch him.  To hold him while he rests.  And it is better than a hallelujah.