
July 08
Zack
... you mighty man of valor!
Judges 6:12 (NKJV)
... though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil....
Psalm 23:4 (NKJV)
It’s been a month. I can’t believe it, a whole month, but it feels like six. Why does time drag so when bad things happen? Does someone mess with our clocks or calendars? Does God slow the earth’s rotation? It’s been a month—quite a month.
One month ago today, Zack died in Iraq. He was 20. He was young and brave, a friend of my son’s and my friend’s son. So, today, I find myself reflecting on January 9th, 2008 and all that followed.
The dreadful news was a major turning point for many and it came late in the day. A church staff member broke it to me with a quick phone call. She was close to tears and could hardly go on. It seems Zack’s team was doing reconnaissance north of Baghdad as a part of Operation Iron Harvest. He and five other soldiers were killed instantly when the booby-trapped house they were searching exploded.
It was difficult news and I had to share it with my wife. I thought she would take it pretty hard. She did. We were sitting on the floor when I told her, and my news rolled onto her like an Abrams tank. Her huge gasp was followed by an excruciating look of pain, followed by uncontrollable, sobbing gulps for air. We both cried, but she wept harder than I’ve seen anyone cry before. That was the thing I’ll always remember about that first hour, the intensity of emotion, the power of terrible words.
The next week produced an avalanche of activity. Here are a few of the many things that truly struck me:
- The mobs of people that surrounded Zack's family: Marshall, Laurie and Sarah McBride. Even strangers became friends. At the McBride’s home it was never too quiet, never too noisy, but always busy, and always there was this steady procession of food and hugs, and soft words. This quiet but powerful stream of activity proved a godsend. It helped. Amid the deep and brutal pain, it helped.
- The electrifying moment of seeing the casket for the first time. It took a few days, but the coffin arrived from the East Coast on a special airplane. After parking on the tarmac, the plane was slowly backed into an open hangar. We followed and the huge hangar doors were shut. Inside, high, blazing lights gave the hangar a sparkling-white appearance, and it was so quiet, it was eerie. This was a private moment and significant. People, huddled together behid the aircraft, caught their breath as, just inside the open cargo hatch, the flag-draped casket appeared for the first time. The crew lowered and delivered the remains with precision and professionalism. The polished honor guard took it from there, and soon we were formed up in a motorcade behind the hearse complete with leather jacketed Patriot Rider motorcycles and a blue sea of law enforcement officers.
- It was the State Troopers who made that steadfast procession so noteworthy to me. We were next to last on that clear, blue afternoon, and as I looked up the highway, I saw the mile-long string of vehicles and the tiny flashing lights leading the way. The high desert rumbled by as we plowed the fairly straight path from airport to funeral home. And then, there they were. Our State Troopers were escorting us, while blocking and directing others. One after another, at every intersection they held the traffic in place and, at the same time, saluted with great respect the procession as it passed. The tight lump in my throat reminded me why this is such a great place to live.
- The day of the funeral it was a box and a friend who caught my eyes. I ushered until the service was to begin then quickly found my place on the second row. It was standing room only, mostly because of Zack but also because of who was here. There were marvelous speeches by politicians and generals, and a perfectly heartfelt testimony from Zack’s good friend Joel, but my biggest memories came after the service. The first was when I went forward to examine the trophy box displaying Zack’s awards and decorations. Wow. He had served a tenth of my 26 years and yet he had more medals—medals of a greater order, the highly prized Bronze Star and a Purple Heart and six more. So impressive ... and so deserved. The other event took place almost an hour later. The room had emptied, all except the lone soldier guarding the flag-covered casket and someone else. The room was dark except where the spotlight lit the casket’s red, white and blue shroud, the soldier and the displays. But there near the coffin, at the edge of the shadow, Simon hunched staring at the scene. Perhaps Zack’s dearest friend, he sat there unable to move, unbelievably lost in this stark, undeniable truth. This strangely beautiful scene of a friend’s love and the reality of his loss, spoke far more eloquently than mere words ever will.
- The last memory is perhaps the most important and it stays with me every day. It is simply this: I never knew how much, just how much, I loved this family ... until this. They were always in my heart, sure, but now they are a fire. If everything else is forgotten, this one thing is worth remembering: we have a capacity for a love deeper than we know. It’s there. It only needs to be awakened, and it will only be awakened when we slow down and focus on others as God allows.
Friends, love your neighbor as yourself. Yes, indeed love him ... love him while you have the chance.
Father, thank You for these memories of love and loss, of heroes and death and life—the abundant life to which You lead us....
Zack
... you mighty man of valor!
Judges 6:12 (NKJV)
... though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil....
Psalm 23:4 (NKJV)
It’s been a month. I can’t believe it, a whole month, but it feels like six. Why does time drag so when bad things happen? Does someone mess with our clocks or calendars? Does God slow the earth’s rotation? It’s been a month—quite a month.
One month ago today, Zack died in Iraq. He was 20. He was young and brave, a friend of my son’s and my friend’s son. So, today, I find myself reflecting on January 9th, 2008 and all that followed.
The dreadful news was a major turning point for many and it came late in the day. A church staff member broke it to me with a quick phone call. She was close to tears and could hardly go on. It seems Zack’s team was doing reconnaissance north of Baghdad as a part of Operation Iron Harvest. He and five other soldiers were killed instantly when the booby-trapped house they were searching exploded.
It was difficult news and I had to share it with my wife. I thought she would take it pretty hard. She did. We were sitting on the floor when I told her, and my news rolled onto her like an Abrams tank. Her huge gasp was followed by an excruciating look of pain, followed by uncontrollable, sobbing gulps for air. We both cried, but she wept harder than I’ve seen anyone cry before. That was the thing I’ll always remember about that first hour, the intensity of emotion, the power of terrible words.
The next week produced an avalanche of activity. Here are a few of the many things that truly struck me:
- The mobs of people that surrounded Zack's family: Marshall, Laurie and Sarah McBride. Even strangers became friends. At the McBride’s home it was never too quiet, never too noisy, but always busy, and always there was this steady procession of food and hugs, and soft words. This quiet but powerful stream of activity proved a godsend. It helped. Amid the deep and brutal pain, it helped.
- The electrifying moment of seeing the casket for the first time. It took a few days, but the coffin arrived from the East Coast on a special airplane. After parking on the tarmac, the plane was slowly backed into an open hangar. We followed and the huge hangar doors were shut. Inside, high, blazing lights gave the hangar a sparkling-white appearance, and it was so quiet, it was eerie. This was a private moment and significant. People, huddled together behid the aircraft, caught their breath as, just inside the open cargo hatch, the flag-draped casket appeared for the first time. The crew lowered and delivered the remains with precision and professionalism. The polished honor guard took it from there, and soon we were formed up in a motorcade behind the hearse complete with leather jacketed Patriot Rider motorcycles and a blue sea of law enforcement officers.
- It was the State Troopers who made that steadfast procession so noteworthy to me. We were next to last on that clear, blue afternoon, and as I looked up the highway, I saw the mile-long string of vehicles and the tiny flashing lights leading the way. The high desert rumbled by as we plowed the fairly straight path from airport to funeral home. And then, there they were. Our State Troopers were escorting us, while blocking and directing others. One after another, at every intersection they held the traffic in place and, at the same time, saluted with great respect the procession as it passed. The tight lump in my throat reminded me why this is such a great place to live.
- The day of the funeral it was a box and a friend who caught my eyes. I ushered until the service was to begin then quickly found my place on the second row. It was standing room only, mostly because of Zack but also because of who was here. There were marvelous speeches by politicians and generals, and a perfectly heartfelt testimony from Zack’s good friend Joel, but my biggest memories came after the service. The first was when I went forward to examine the trophy box displaying Zack’s awards and decorations. Wow. He had served a tenth of my 26 years and yet he had more medals—medals of a greater order, the highly prized Bronze Star and a Purple Heart and six more. So impressive ... and so deserved. The other event took place almost an hour later. The room had emptied, all except the lone soldier guarding the flag-covered casket and someone else. The room was dark except where the spotlight lit the casket’s red, white and blue shroud, the soldier and the displays. But there near the coffin, at the edge of the shadow, Simon hunched staring at the scene. Perhaps Zack’s dearest friend, he sat there unable to move, unbelievably lost in this stark, undeniable truth. This strangely beautiful scene of a friend’s love and the reality of his loss, spoke far more eloquently than mere words ever will.
- The last memory is perhaps the most important and it stays with me every day. It is simply this: I never knew how much, just how much, I loved this family ... until this. They were always in my heart, sure, but now they are a fire. If everything else is forgotten, this one thing is worth remembering: we have a capacity for a love deeper than we know. It’s there. It only needs to be awakened, and it will only be awakened when we slow down and focus on others as God allows.
Friends, love your neighbor as yourself. Yes, indeed love him ... love him while you have the chance.
Father, thank You for these memories of love and loss, of heroes and death and life—the abundant life to which You lead us....