Yesterday, I had some time between classes (I’m currently doing some classwork necessary before I start work) and went downtown to check out a local bookstore. As it turned out, it was closed (did I mention that it was in the middle of a torrential downpour?) so I walked next door to the military surplus/antique/collectable/junk store next door. It actually was my kind of place. I have a soft spot in my heart for flea markets, garage sales, antique stores, and junk shops. It’s a bit schizophrenic since I’m not at all fond of digging through clothes when they are new, even for a good deal - however, if it’s a bin full of rusty old hand tools, I’m game. 

Sooo, there I was, digging through bins of $1 screwdrivers and I hear from behind me, “Third ID huh?” I turned around and saw a man, not much older than me, looking through me to the shelf beyond. 

I tentatively responded, “sure - you?” 

“Yeah, I spent some years there back at the beginning of the war.” 

“Cool. Rock of the Marne.” 

He chuckled. “Man, I still think that revile should end with the Dog Faced Soldier.” I responded in kind. He started to talk about how he had been out of the service for a “little while” and missed it. He was in the Patriot Guard, which started out here in Kansas in response to that aberration of religion, hate church; and being in the Guard brought some camaraderie back into his life. It’s always a bit amazing how quickly someone identifying you as a chaplain seems to open them up. I asked, “what has it been like for you since you got out” and the floodgates opened. He was out of a job, medically retired, had a rough time keeping work and the only job that he was comfortable doing was pipefitting for the union because it was deep in the earth with only one or two other guys. It was work with his hands. And no one cared if he was a little rough around the edges. 

“What can I do? I only know the Army. I only know shoot, move, and communicate. I don’t have that any more. I don’t have anything really. I came back from the war [2003 invasion of Iraq]and was broke. My buddy and I are the same. 36 and what do we have to look forward too?” 

We talked about it. I listened. He told me about riding in the motorcade for the local Soldiers who went down in the recent helicopter crash in the ‘Stan. His emotions boiled over as he talked about being with the family and watching the Soldier being escorted off the plane and into the hearse. As stories go, this one morphed into another story about a young Soldier that just came home who he is reaching out to. Said it seems hard for that guy to trust him, how the young Vet drinks alot and he worries about that. I asked if he is keeping tabs on him and he said that he was - didn’t want him to fall through the cracks like he did. 

“What does that mean?” I ask. 

“Well, you know…” 

“Well, stay with him man, too many of us are killing themselves.” 

That was it. The tender nerve. The story came fast and furious after that. Pent up frustration and grief shrouded in the anger and shame. The brand new truck, with the lift kit, custom paint job, and the straight pipes. The lake on the weekend. The self-medication. The moment where no one was there, no one understood, no one listened and he saw the cliff. He gunned it. All the way to the floor till  he launched off the cliff. He woke up alive and cursed. Fail. Always a fail. He saw his friends, long passed, and they called to him. He crawled out of the passenger side with all his ribs broken. When he was finally found and medics arrived he was reaching final blackout. They had to shock him to keep him alive. 

Silence. 

“What does it mean to you?” I ask. He looks confused. “What does it mean that you are here, telling me this amazing story…. in this junk shop?” 

“I guess its just that we’re here. We’re all still here and don’t know what to do. I wish I could join again. I wish I could do something. I wish I could get together with some other vets, put on my uniform with my rank and all and shoot some SAWs and AKs at the range or something.” 

“What is your identity these days?” 

“The Patriot Guard helps. But it’s only for the moment and then it’s gone. We show up, we ride for honor, then it’s over and we go home and I still don’t have a job.” We spoke after that, pastoral care in the center aisle of the junk shop. It was hard to separate but we both needed to move on. 

People ask me what it’s like, being a chaplain. It’s like that. Hearing stories. Walking along in a journey. Sharing life. It’s a spiritual thing. Some days I talk about God alot. Sometimes, God is everywhere and not necessarily in the words spoken. This man’s identity and spiritual center had been there, as an NCO in the 3d Infantry Division. Seeing my combat patch opened that moment back up for him. My questions opened up his internal turmoil. I struggle to be present. I had to focus to not look at my watch while he talked. I had “important Army business” to get back to but in that moment, he needed to unburden his mind. 

“Bear one another’s burden.” Christ in the junk shop.