You are my best friend and hero.
Happy Father’s Day, my love.
Heather turned off the computer, wiping the tears off her face. Nothing about those words had been exaggerated or made up. They were so real when she wrote them. Yet now she questioned everything.
She no longer felt like Darren’s friend, much less his best friend and love. And with each passing dark day, Heather was afraid their children no longer fully knew or believed they were loved.
Where had the man she’d written those words to gone?
God, is he ever going to show back up?
5
Christmas approached, but Darren didn’t look forward to it, not the way he used to. He couldn’t seem to find the enthusiasm or energy inside to be excited about the holiday or anything else. One night in early December he sat looking at the photos from a year ago, the ones shared on their site.
I have the new pictures posted. In order to tell the story better, I will narrate you through the images. Just a few words under each picture don’t do them justice.
Pic 1: This was the first PB we hit on Christmas Eve. Our commander, dressed as Santa, came barreling out of the Humvee and ran into the house. The guys were floored! They thought it was hilarious. Some weren’t even sure who he was. After some greetings and ho-ho-ho’s he sat down and let the guys sit on his lap for pictures, which they emailed home later that night. We handed each soldier a stocking.
Pic 2: Early Christmas Day morning, about to head out to the other PBs with the commander’s Personal Security Detail (PSD), the guys who drive him around and provide protection for him. This is who we usually ride with, so I know these guys well. It was about 32 degrees that morning. Sorry for the sunrise in the camera!
Pic 3: Santa getting some mirror time to make sure all his hairs are nicely aligned.
Pic 4: The first PB that Christmas morning, one of the company’s lieutenants showing off his stocking.
Pic 5: A soldier and his Wilson volleyballs (remember the movie Cast Away with Tom Hanks?). Not sure why he had those, probably feels stuck like Hanks did.
Pic 6: Our encore! All the officers of the company at the PB singing “Feliz Navidad.” It was a hit! I played some also on the guitar. Thanks, Calvary Chapel of Gwinnett, for the guitar!
Pic 7: A soldier taking Communion at one of the Christmas services. We stepped away from Santa and the stockings to get to the real Reason. These particular guys were waiting for “our Christmas service,” as they called it.
Pic 8: Me and two Concerned Citizens. They wanted two of my Santa hats, so what could I say? ☺ A soldier in the background gets a stocking from us.
Pic 9: Great story! This little boy in the village saw us handing stockings to our guys as they had pics with Santa, and he wanted one: “Mista, Mista—I have?” Again, what could I say? He says “Shukran” (thank you). Six weeks ago, bullets were flying in his village. No more!
Pic 10: Probably my favorite picture. These guys, once they got their stockings, walked away from the group a bit to read their cards and go through their stockings.
Pic 11: And to close the day, I helped serve the Christmas dinner brought from the main base. A good ending to a great day! Thanks again.
Those last words Darren had typed out twelve months ago stung. Yes, it was a good ending to a great day. But he couldn’t help looking at the one picture of the “anonymous soldier” taking Communion.
He hadn’t shared Lance Bradley’s name.
Yes, this had indeed been the “real reason” for them to celebrate Christmas and have fun with jolly ol’ Saint Nick while handing out stockings.
But what’s the real reason for losing Lance? Why, God? Why did You have to take him?
Darren didn’t think he’d ever understand the real reason for that.
JANUARY 2009
1
Sometimes Darren felt like he could keep running forever.
He went jogging in the morning, when the cold helped wake him up and the chill felt like the opposite of being in Iraq. A midday run helped clear his thoughts and revived him, while an evening jog helped repair the nerves that had been splintering apart all day long.
On this cool January evening, it felt good to run along the trails in the nearby woods leading to Freedom Park as the sun drifted away into the west. He always came back at dusk, sweaty and empty but a little more sane. Yet for some reason, Darren felt different tonight. As usual, his thoughts ran alongside him for a while, but mile by mile he was able to outrun them. The thousands of things stampeding through his heart soon only became a handful, and eventually he was thinking about nothing but the rhythm of his heart and lungs and pounding feet.
Tonight, he couldn’t shake all those thoughts and emotions. He kept thinking of a Wild at Heart quote he’d found on a note-card: We are hiding, every last one of us. Well aware that we too are not what we were meant to be, desperately afraid of exposure, terrified of being seen for what we are and are not, we have run off into the bushes. We hide in our office, at the gym, behind the newspaper and mostly behind our personality. Most of what you encounter when you meet a man is a facade, an elaborate fig leaf, a brilliant disguise.
The first time Darren read this, he wrote it down as a powerful example and quote to use in a sermon. He understood it well, yet he also could say he wasn’t hiding nor living behind a facade. But now? The words felt like they had been written specifically about him.
Every day he feared someone would discover how weak and fragile he’d become—someone other than Heather, of course. She knew well enough by now. She could see he’d run off into the bushes. Sometimes, like now, he was literally doing just that.
I’m a brilliant disguise. I’ve been hiding. For six months.
He could see all the parents weeping with him as he tried to console them. He heard the cries of the kids trying to understand why their daddy or mommy had died. Chaplain Turner could never show his fears, nor could he hesitate. Yet this only made him feel worse, keeping everything bottled inside, then letting it explode open time and again at home.
Memories from the past months haunted him. He recalled the argument just before the kids went trick-or-treating on Halloween. The disastrous family dinner at their house on Thanksgiving. Getting angry at Sam and Elie when they comp lained about the things they didn’t receive at Christmastime. He didn’t recognize the man walking in his skin.
I detest that man.
He just didn’t know if that man would ever have the strength to leave.
2
The wet pan was taking forever to clean. Heather kept scrubbing the melted cheese off its sides as the water in the sink spilled over the side of the counter. She noticed that her jeans were wet and simply sighed.
Her neck ached, her body was exhausted from a long day of shuttling the kids around to swim practice and soccer, seeing a couple of army families, and going grocery shopping. Darren had been home when she brought in the groceries, so she made chicken parmesan, hoping the delicious aromas would entice him to actually sit down and have dinner with them. But as usual, he had suited up in his jogging clothes and bolted out the door without saying a word.
She was drying the last bowl when the door thumped open and footsteps came into the kitchen. Darren was breathing hard and sweaty. He quickly grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water from the refrigerator. There was no greeting. Nothing. He hadn’t said much to her since their argument yesterday.
“You missed dinner and bedtime, again,” she said.
He chugged the water and ignored her. She could tell he didn’t want to hear it, but he needed to hear it. This was ridiculous. She was doing too much around this house. There were two parents living in this house, but one was doing all the work.
Darren jerked open the dishwasher to stick the glass in. He pulled out the top rack, and finding it jammed full he exhaled with impatience and searched for a place to set it. The glass caught on one of the rack pins, and he pushed and pul
led it till—
“Darren!”
The glass shattered in his hand, sending pieces falling over other dishes and onto the floor. He backhanded the top rack in retaliation, and Heather could see blood splattering everywhere as another glass smashed to the floor.
“Are you kidding me?”
Darren looked angrier than she had ever seen him appear.
“Do you ever run this thing?”
“Shh! I just got the kids down!”
Grabbing a dish towel, Darren started to wipe the blood off the top of the counter, but instead turned it into a long smear. He wadded the towel around the gash in his hand.
“Unbelievable!” he shouted.
Heather didn’t move or blink or breathe. Then she slowly began to pick up the broken glass.
“I want you to stop this right now,” she said. “I don’t want Meribeth waking up and walking in here when you’re like this. You’ll scare her.”
Just like you’re scaring me.
His eyes grew dim as he glared down at her. She’d never realized what an intimidating presence Darren could be.
“Come on, let me see that,” she said, and reached for his hand to take a look at the wound.
Darren yanked his hand away from her as if she were a wild animal trying to bite it. He headed for the front door. “I’m going to base to get stitches.”
She followed him, every ounce of her body seemingly on fire. “Sure, fine, walk away. I’ve been doing just fine on my own for the past twenty-one months.”
Darren stopped and spun back around. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m here—”
“No, you’re not here! Not with me. Not with the kids.” Now it was Heather who was shouting.
“I’m going for stitches.”
“I have been patient and compassionate, Darren. I’ve given you space. I’ve run interference with the kids to protect them—”
“Protect them? From what?”
“I don’t know! That’s the point! I don’t recognize you like this. You are angry and distant and mean. All the time. And I’m totally alone here.”
With each spoken word, Heather could feel herself growing more and more aggressive.
“What kills me is that you know how to show up,” she continued. “You know how to be kind. Tonya won’t stop talking about how you keep showing up for Michael.”
“That’s because he’s been through something.”
Darren looked as if he was reeling, reliving the combat images right there in front of her. Yet it didn’t matter. The anger exploded inside of her like an IED.
“I’ve been through something!” she said.
“Oh yeah? What?”
“Oh, I don’t know—just raising our three children by myself—partnerless. For a year and a half I’ve weathered every tantrum, soothed every hurt. I have cooked every meal, washed every dish. I’ve carried this family and held us together despite the fact that since you’ve been back you’ve made exactly zero effort to share the burden.”
Darren’s eyes were wide open and electric as if staring at a wildfire coming at him. Heather didn’t stop.
“And on top of that, Darren, I have also been holding wailing, sobbing wives, mothers, and children in my arms. While you were there, I was here. I saw and felt their hearts torn to shreds. And you don’t think I’ve been through something?”
“Oh, you want to turn this into a competition right now?”
“No!” she screamed. “I want to know why! Why you somehow have it in you to show up for those men but you can’t do it for your own family?”
“Those men need me,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I need you. Your children need you! And you’ve abandoned us!”
The man in front of her wasn’t her husband. He was a tormented and confused stranger. He shook his head and looked delirious.
“You don’t get it,” Darren said. “You will never get it. I can’t look at you, and I’m not doing this right now.”
He opened the door and walked out of the house.
3
Darren sat in his car, the last hour spent in the hospital getting stitches and bandaging up his hand. Most of the men coming in for a wound like this would have been questioned and suspected of doing something wrong, but not someone like Chaplain Turner. People knew him, knew he had a wonderful wife and three amazing children, so how could there possibly be anything wrong with this picture?
In the darkness, the light drizzle falling on his truck, Darren felt like his worldview had suddenly become as clear as the wet windshield in front of him.
You know how to use the wipers but you’re refusing to. You don’t even want to start the engine.
He was stuck and knew what he should do and where he should put all of this, but he couldn’t.
No, you don’t want to. You’re holding on to it. To have at least one thing you can control.
Darren knew his resistance toward faith wasn’t control in any way. It was sin, and it was selfish. He knew better.
Yet every time he wanted to do the right thing, to plead with God and to ask for His help, Darren stopped. He pictured a dozen different images from Iraq, each one a cord on a whip, each one lashing out as the enemy used the weapon to inflict pain.
He looked at the bandage on his hand in horror and shame.
What is happening to me?
The problem was he knew the answer. He knew what was wrong and how to fix it too.
But I don’t believe it’s going to work. Not now. Not anymore.
4
Even though the smell of pancakes and bacon filled their house, Meribeth was the only one in the family actually having breakfast. Or at least sitting down to take tiny swallows of orange juice from her sippy cup. Heather woke up alone in the king bed, wondering where Darren might be. Worried until she found him sleeping on the couch. By the time all the kids were up, she heard him shuffling around, heading out to the garage. Perhaps some food could at least establish a little more sense of normalcy around the house.
“Sam! Elie! Time for breakfast!”
They were somewhere, maybe in their bedrooms. Heather slid a couple more fresh pancakes onto the stack of half a dozen. Maybe she’d get lucky. Maybe Darren would walk by and decide to have some. She didn’t expect him to sit down or start to decorate the pancakes for the kids like he used to. But at least maybe he could receive something from her. Some small gift, even if it was just a pancake.
A glint on the kitchen counter lit up by the morning sun caught her eye. She walked over and picked up a shard of glass, a remnant of the scene last night. As she threw it into the garbage can, she replayed the scene one more time, the same one that had kept her awake for most of the night. After Darren left, all she could do was pray, yet even that felt halfhearted. For one of the first times since her husband had come back a different man, Heather began to fear the worst.
Some soldiers coming back simply couldn’t cope, so they would do one thing they were trained to do: kill. No, Darren hadn’t been defusing bombs and being a sniper, yet he had seen more of the carnage from the battlefield than most. When the wounded came back to base bloody and dying, the medics were called in to heal their bodies. More men and women came back appearing fine on the outside, yet it was the chaplain who came in to help heal their souls.
Heather understood. She knew Darren and how he wanted to help. How he’d felt called to serve these wounded warriors, to help them carry their grief, to show them who they ultimately needed to run to.
He needs someone to help him. Someone to show him the right path. But it’s not going to be me, as much as I keep hoping and praying that it will.
For six months she’d been living with a ticking time bomb. For six months she had walked around looking for potential angry landmines, fearful of emotional mortars suddenly exploding in front of her. His detachment deepened over the months, and now it was a routine of withdrawal.
Early that morning, when she saw the lights of th
e car move across the blinds in their bedroom and then heard the garage door opening, Heather let out a shaky breath of relief. The worst hadn’t happened—it couldn’t happen, right? Yet after the scene last night, she was starting to believe that anything really could happen. They were no different from any other couple battling the wounds of war. Yes, they had a faith that some others didn’t have, but that faith was being tested in a mighty way.
And the enemy’s been winning for a while.
She decided to not make any more pancakes until Elie and Sam came to the table. While heading to their rooms to find them, she heard Darren yelling. She stopped in the hallway, startled as she heard his booming voice, assuming he must be talking to someone on the phone. Maybe another soldier or a buddy. The voice came from their bedroom, and as she entered she saw Darren towering over the kids. They sat on the floor next to his nightstand, both of them looking up in fear at their father.
“What do you think you’re doing!” Darren bellowed out.
Between the kids, as if neither of them wanted to take the blame for holding it, was Darren’s worn leather journal, the one he had brought to Iraq. The journal with the opening page of WE LOVE YOU! ELIE AND SAM drawn in colorful crayon.
“Sorry,” Elie said in a choked voice. “We just wanted to—”
“It doesn’t matter what you wanted!” Darren snapped.
They were reading it. Oh Lord, they got it out and were reading it.
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