One soldier watching
family weeps silently—
we leave with our bags.
I saw the soldier boarding the plane, noted his youthful appearance, and then scanned the airplane cabin for a seat with my wife. Traveling back to Kentucky from Oklahoma, Lori and I were both the weary travelers, grateful to have made our connecting flight in Chicago, only an hour airtime to Louisville International Airport.
It wasn’t until we had settled into our seats and I was searching for my seat belt that I noticed that the young soldier was in the aisle directly in front of me. Then I heard the pilot’s announcement, informing us that our flight was carrying a fallen soldier home. The pilot asked that we be respectful of the family and that upon landing, please remain seated until they had removed the soldier’ body from the plane first.
I quickly put it together: the young soldier seated in front of me was accompanying the fallen soldier’s family, helping them with travel. I heard him mentioning a funeral home for the family. The young lady with the child was either the deceased soldier’s wife or sister, and the older man and his wife, had to be his parents.
The fallen soldier’s father had given a hamburger, French fires, and a drink to the accompanying soldier, for which the young man thanked the father profusely. The father’s thoughtfulness amidst his pain was heart-wrenching.
And so, I sat back in my seat, feeling both sad and guilty: sorry for the family in such a painful loss, and guilty for complaining, albeit secretly, for the inconvenience of having to wear a mask and wipe down everything I thought I might touch on the flight. I even felt guilty that I had been a tad envious of the soldier’s meal, before I was aware of who he was.
“Lord, comfort this family and strengthen that soldier in front of me, and forgive me for being such a whiney baby, for complaining about the inconveniences brought on by the COVID Crisis, for grumbling about the possibility of becoming infected with a virus when someone on this plane died for this country and whose family is experiencing a pain I know but then, can’t know. Thank you for the gifts I have: my seat on this plane; the conversation I had with my son while we waited for our connecting flight; the contentment of sitting next to my wife on this flight; a job awaiting me that allows me to help others and grow spiritually stronger in the process.”
After exiting the plane, I saw him in the terminal, the father of the fallen soldier. He was peering out the window, watching as they removed his son’s casket.
“Sir,” I said, somewhat hesitant to speak and saying my words in as gentle a tone as possible.
He looked back at me, directly into my eyes, wearing the confused look of a child who had been whacked across the face by a parent for no apparent reason.
“Sir,” I stammered, “please, excuse me, I want you to know my wife and I are praying for you. And we’ll continue praying. We’re so, so sorry.”
That was all.
He nodded with approval and thanked me, with a blank stare, as if he didn’t fully comprehend what was happening at that moment, but then again, perhaps I saw my past pain in his present. Maybe, had we the time and the trust with each other, we could sit down and visit, finding common ground on which to spread our blankets of grief.
He quickly turned his attention where it should be: his son’s casket.
And then, he disappeared from us, forever, I suppose, at least on this side of eternity, he, a fellow struggler, vanishing from us as we moved further down the terminal, and we, to the baggage claim, and then onto highway ramp, where we would join the living and the life that awaits us.