Patrick J. McLaughlin
Lutheran Pastor, Author, Historian
No Atheists in Foxholes
No Atheists in Foxholes
Prayers and Reflections From the Front
- Release Date May 20, 2008. Available in stores the Tuesday before the Memorial Day holiday! Order ahead on BarnesandNoble.com, Amazon.com, or Christianbook.com
Excerpt
Prayer for Peace
THE SOLDIER ABOVE ALL OTHER PEOPLE
PRAYS FOR PEACE, FOR HE MUST SUFFER AND BEAR
THE DEEPEST WOUNDS AND SCARS OF WAR.
—General Douglas MacArthur
God of All Power and Might:
Recognize us as a fallen humanity as we pray to you.
We pray for peace around the globe.
When peace is broken, the result is not glorious war,
but rather the ravages of death.
Grant that our actions may prevent war
and our wars restore peace.
Bestow patience on our ambassadors and lawmakers.
Bless the leaders of the world with wisdom.
Give our citizens, government, and military
the courage to defend the right of all people
to live a peaceful and productive life.
Watch over your quarrelsome children, Lord,
until the day of eternal peace.
Recognize us as your children, we pray.
Amen . . . and peace . . . and amen.
A Lesson in Faith from a Muslim Father
Shots ring out, and people in the village of Jazeera take refuge inside the
courtyards and confines of their homes. Unfortunately, by late 2005, it
is an event that they are accustomed to. While the village is a small place,
these Iraqis are proud that until recently, their children have received an
education, and they are a dignified and independent people.
Yet making a living in rural western Iraq is difficult. The ground can be
unforgiving. The heat and lack of rainfall make for a short growing season.
Life is made more difficult by anti-Iraqi forces that have used their village
school as a shelter and as cover for some of their attacks on a local Army
checkpoint. Rapid-fire bursts of AK-47 rounds are heard as the enemy
moves its position away from the schoolhouse and closer to houses in the
village. With no warning, a fourteen-year-old boy is shot in the chest as he
plays with his six younger brothers in his backyard. The family thought they
were safe inside the walled confines of their yard.
The bullet that struck this teenage boy was a stray ricochet from the
gun of an insurgent who was firing at the nearby Army checkpoint. One of
the first lessons of war is that a bullet has no conscience.
But I learn another lesson of war here too. When your child is shot—
especially, in this country, your firstborn son—you’ll do anything to save
him. Within moments of the young boy’s getting shot, his father braves the
firefight, carries him through the dusty streets of Jazeera to the Army checkpoint, and literally hands him to an American soldier standing next to a
tank. The soldier is stunned by the appearance of the father carrying his
young son and instinctively takes him, a reaction to the out-thrust arms of a man carrying a wounded child. The concerned father knows that the best
medical care is available from the Americans, so without thinking twice he
hands his son over to a total stranger, a combatant, a foreigner who does not
speak Arabic. This is the father’s sole hope of saving his dear son’s life.
Without reservation I can say that Iraqi children are quite beautiful.
Their olive skin and dark features light up when they smile. They have the
deepest brown eyes you’ve ever seen. Unlike American children, they have a
slight build and look younger than their actual age. This teenage boy is rushed
to Camp Al Taqaddum by a small convoy and arrives at the Surgical Shock
Trauma Platoon (SSTP) tents, accompanied by an Army medic who has
already done a great job bandaging up the boy’s wounds and making him as
comfortable as possible in a Humvee traveling the bouncing terrain. Through
the translators the boy says that he is in no pain. After a quick examination,
the attending doctor says it appears that the bullet entered the boy’s side
below his right armpit and exited through his right chest wall. With this type
of wound, he is undoubtedly in pain, but he is determined to put on his
toughest face. His toughest face to me, though, is still the angelic face of a
child who should never have to suffer the ravages of a war fought by adults.
When his father handed him to the checkpoint soldier, he did so with
complete faith. The soldiers at the checkpoint tried their best to tell him
where they were going to take his son. The insurgents continued to send
rounds in the direction of the checkpoint. The soldiers could not send the
father after his son right away; they had to wait until it was safe to transport
the father through a dangerous corridor of roads to get to Camp Al
Taqaddum. It is almost two hours later when the father arrives at the entry
checkpoint to be checked for identification and searched for any weapons.
By the time he is escorted to the SSTP tents, his son is out of surgery and
awake in recovery.
a few words of English, he asks, “Is he okay?” I nod my head yes and lead
him back to the tent serving as the recovery area. I speak less Arabic than
he does English. With that affirmation and at the sight of his son alive and
awake, the father lets his tears flow and begins to kiss his son’s forehead and
hands. He turns to me and, still not altogether composed, shows me the
large bloodstain that covers the front of his shirt. Then he pulls out the
handkerchief in his pocket and points to his son. Clearly, it is his son’s blood from when this devoted father carried him so quickly and gently to get help. I have witnessed many reunions when soldiers are returning from deployments, but this is the most beautiful reunion I have ever witnessed as the young boy smiles and is even a bit embarrassed by his father’s emotions.
When the translator returns, the father is profusely thankful, and he
begins to tell the translator the story of what happened. This is his oldest
child, and his pride in his son is quite apparent. He tells us that he is a good
boy, a hard worker on the family’s small farm and diligent in school. He
laments the fact that because of the insurgents, it is no longer safe to attend
school in the area. He also tells us that when his son was shot, he didn’t hesitate to risk not knowing where his son was going—as long as his son was with the Americans who would give him the best medical treatment available. The father explains that he has faith in our doctors and that their reputation is known all over the area. And so, without hesitation, he handed
over his son—his firstborn son, his helper on the farm, his pride and joy—
with complete faith and trust. The translator has explained to him who I
am and what I do as the chaplain for the surgical unit. The father turns to
me and says that God is good and that he knew that God and the
Americans would take care of his son. He says that all of life in Iraq is in
God’s hands.
It does not matter that his son was prayed for by a Protestant chaplain
and operated on by a Catholic surgeon and a Jewish surgeon. Those are
mere details about the people who are instruments of God’s hands during
this time of crisis.
Here, in a war-torn country during the Islamic season of Ramadan, I
am learning what living faith really is. I—a Christian chaplain—am learning from an Islamic father that faith means letting go and trusting God and other people at the absolute worst, most traumatic time of your life. I am learning that faith means risking everything to save someone you love. I am learning that faith is a blessing that comes with an unwavering belief
in God, and sometimes in humanity, despite living in the midst of the worst
of humanity’s actions. I am learning about faith far from home and not
from a book, not from another chaplain, not from a sister or brother in
Christ, but from a Muslim father.
When our discussion ends, we sit down as proud fathers. He is the
father of seven boys—quite a source of pride in a farming village where their help is invaluable. I tell him that I am the father of four daughters and one son. He grins and says he feels sorry for me. It is now past sunset, so he can have something to eat. We offer him a take-out plate from the mess hall, but all he accepts is some water and crackers. We sit on plastic milk crates
and eat in silence. Grateful for his brave young son, grateful for skilled doctors, and grateful to God, we share this meal that is more meaningful to me than any communion table I have ever knelt at.
In less than ten minutes, he and his son board an ambulance headed to the airfield and a medevac helicopter that will take them to the hospital in Baghdad. It does not matter that neither of them has ever flown in a helicopter. I learn that faith and faith alone will see them through this entire ordeal.
I shake his hand as he boards the ambulance, and I tell him, “God bless
you.” He understands this, folds his hands together, points toward heaven,
then points toward me. It is his way of saying the same thing to me. I have
received one final blessing from this Muslim father. It is the most meaningful one I will receive during this entire deployment. I am more proud of this moment than of any of the awards I wear on my dress uniform.
Over a year later I can still picture this brave young boy and his father, and I realize that God has sent me a lesson in faith.
From the sands of Iraq, in the midst of the Al Anbar Province, I am grateful. I am blessed. I have seen what true faith means.
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