The Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deep regret that your husband was killed today in a routine training accident. The Secretary extends his deepest sympathy to you and your family in your tragic loss.

Same script as usual, except today I’m supporting my brethren in the Army, so there’s a one word difference from what I’m used to hearing. I’m sure the family doesn’t even notice the differences in my uniform. All they know is that the three of us shouldn’t be here. As soon as we step from the car, everyone knows the news isn’t good. The military doesn’t show up on people’s doorsteps to tell them everything is fine. Not three days after Christmas. Not late at night. Not ever. It’s as though we were the Grim Reaper himself.

I am a messenger of death.

In an instant, everyone’s suspicions are confirmed. Social media has been abuzz all afternoon about an AH-64 Apache crash in Galveston Bay. Photos online showed the helicopter upside down in shallow water. Husbands who were scheduled to fly didn’t return texts from anxious wives. Sons didn’t return calls from worries mothers. Everyone assumed the worst until now. Now there are no more assumptions. Just life-altering facts.

Wives lost husbands. Parents lost sons. Children lost fathers.

I am a messenger of death.

In the military, our families all come to grips with the fact that we might leave them, go to some unpronounceable place halfway around the world, and never return. That reality is once of the prices of service and one of the dangers of combat. But very few spouses and families ever really think about the fact that every time we go to work, there’s a chance we might not come home. While that is true of everyone in every job, the odds are higher in our line of work just because of its nature.

Wives aren’t supposed to die in training accidents. Husbands aren’t supposed to be killed at home station. Children aren’t supposed to lose parents in our day-to-day operations. But it happens, and when it does, we show up unannounced in dress uniforms to bear the bad news. Just like in the movies.

I am a messenger of death.

If that’s where it ended, I’d be tempted to resign my commission and stick with more benign pursuits. But the message doesn’t stop with the Army script. For me, as a chaplain called into the valley of the shadow of death, that is only half the story.

I am a messenger of death, but I am a messenger of hope.

For as Jesus said to Martha:

I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me, shall never die. Do you believe this?

And as St. Paul wrote to the church at Rome:

For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

For the Christian, death is not the end. Tonight the Army does not have the final say. As I remind a grieving widow that answers to all her questions will come in time, I also remind her of the promises of her faith in Christ as emblazoned on her tear-soaked t-shirt. No, this doesn’t minimize her pain or make it hurt any less right now. This doesn’t invalidate her faith in any way, for God does not promise that bad things–even awful things–won’t happen to us. His promise is that we will not face them alone. His promise is one of his loving, healing presence with us. His promise is one of life conquering death.

I am a messenger of hope.

Be still, my soul; the Lord is on thy side; Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain; Leave to thy God to order and provide; In every change He faithful will remain. Be still, my soul; thy best, thy heavenly, Friend Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.
Be still, my soul, though dearest friends depart And all is darkened in the vale of tears; Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart, Who comes to soothe thy sorrows and thy fears. Be still, my soul; thy Jesus can repay From His own fullness all He takes away. (Catharina von Schlegel)

NOTE: there are no details about the 28 Dec 2016 accident that are not publicly available from KHOU news or the Houston Chronicle. I respect to the uttermost the privacy of the families of my fallen brothers in arms and will not answer any questions about these events. The thoughts presented here are my own personal reflections only.