Hidden Battles

 In 2009, I would make a phone call that would change my life. For several years up to that point, I had invested my life into those who had put on the nation's uniform - fulfilling a mission of my own to enable civilian support to the deployed as well as the wounded in body and spirit who needed to be loved on and told that their efforts meant something, regardless of political persuasion or opinion. Since my mid-teens this had turned into a passionate labor of love that would end up lasting a decade. 

The sad part of it was, sometimes this led me into the deepest caverns of the broken human spirit, causing me to hear stories of heartache, loss, anger, and all manner of grieving as survivors tried to cope with goodbyes and fight hidden battles that nobody knew of. It also caused me to feel intense loss myself as one of the Marines I met through this endeavor paid the ultimate sacrifice in November of 2006. And I grieved along with those I knew who knew him - a club knit together by a commonality that few understand or know. 

This was the setting for one of the most God-ordained connections I've ever been part of. For some time, I had worked long-distance with the Marine Liaison office at Bethesda Naval Hospital in Maryland...utilizing the assistance of the knowledgeable Marines there to help get encouragement to those who were recovering in hospital there. They had done so much to help me navigate the system so that I could fulfill my mission, and they were more than happy to do what they could for me. 

On this particular day when I called, a young Marine answered and was very helpful in answering whatever question I had called about. Usually when I said that I was calling from Alaska, I would get questions about the weather or if people live in igloos here, so when he told me he had a question for me, I wasn't too surprised. What was surprising though was what he did end up asking. It wasn't about the weather. It was about my affiliation with the local Marine reserve unit and if I knew anybody that served in it. He said his name was Sgt. Ramon. Turns out, he had served with another unit that had been adjoined to ours on a deployment a few years prior, so many of the people I knew were friends of his, including the one Marine who had died a couple years before. This fellow had actually been near the scene when my friend had died, thus forming a bond between us unlike any other. After several minutes of sharing, we vowed to stay in touch. 

And stay in touch we did...for the next six years. During the remainder of his time working at Bethesda, I would call up sometimes just to say hello and catch up. He loved it. And when he got ready to leave his job there for another assignment, we exchanged contact info so we could keep in contact. However, shortly after that, we lost touch for close to three years. 

One day, I just felt God telling me to reach out to him. I hadn't for sometime, so I dashed off an email to him. And, a few hours later, he responded and gave me a phone number to call. And I did. We were so happy to hear from each other again. But this time of talking was different. Life had hit hard. Post-war life had hit hard. And he was barely hanging on. Two near-death experiences had resulted in two traumatic brain injuries. Suicidal, depressed, and angry he just needed a friend. And I was thankful I'd arrived on the scene in time to help. 

Over the ensuing months, phone calls, texts, and emails continued as I did my best to be there for him during his darkest hours. Then came the day when he told me, "Just call me Alex." This connection that had formed around business was no longer merely professional. It had turned into a friendship. Hours and hours were spent on the phone, talking through his issues and letting him know that he was loved, cared about, and valued. That his fallen comrades were respected and would never be forgotten. That his injuries and hidden battles were seen by at least one person who would cover him in prayer and walk the journey with him. 

As this went on for close to two years, I wanted with everything I had to meet him in person. To hug him and talk face to face about the people we knew and to make some memories together while we could. So, in February of 2015, I flew to San Antonio, TX and we met. It was one of the sweetest meetings I've ever experienced. Two people, bonded by common loss, who had never met in person in six years, looking into each other's faces and saying hello as we shared a hug that I'll never forget. 

We spent three days talking and opening up about our mutual loss, and I could see the hope and the joy coming into him. Love was breaking through. Kindness and care was softening the warrior. And the sweetness of his heart was coming out. We went out to dinner a couple of times, enjoyed a hike together along with his service dog, Roco and a friend, and went to a music festival. And I kept coming back to the simple fact that God destines lives to cross paths. We are all just mere players in His story. And this was proof. 

Saying goodbye was hard, but we hoped for a next time. And over the ensuing months, we texted and kept in touch. He was working hard on going to school so that he could apply to law school and make something meaningful of his post-war existence. He seemed to be doing well. He had asked me to help him review some papers for his entrance into law school that fall, and I was glad to help him out. 

But then, the texts weren't answered, the emails stopped coming. I figured he'd just found somebody else to help him out. But soon, months rolled on into years. And I didn't know what happened to him. That is, until this week. Late Monday night, I discovered an obituary online. Alex was dead at 31. Gone only ten months after our visit together, he died of an apparent heart attack, possibly induced by a lethal combination of prescription medications mixed with alcohol. That explained the unusual silence. My Sgt. Ramon had been dead for close to four years and, because family had no way to tell me (and probably didn't even think to let me know), I've gone on to live life having no idea that he was gone. 

While I have peace in knowing that I did what I could for him and, while I will be forever thankful that I went to visit when I did, it still hurts. Deeply. Because I lost a friend. And I'll miss him greatly. It's painful to think that I won't ever hear that deep voice call me "ma'am" anymore or that there won't be that "next time" for a visit that we talked about. If there is a "next time," I'll be visiting a grave sight in San Antonio. I never thought that would happen. 

Alex fought hidden battles that few outside close family and friends knew about. He dealt with deep emotional hurts that he often told me even his therapists couldn't understand. But somehow, he let me into that hurting space and gave me a chance to love him through it. And let this be a word to anybody walking through emotional trauma with someone: find the cracks in their broken spirit and pour your one heart in. Give them all the love you can. Because sometimes, love provides unspoken answers to pain that nothing else can. 

Listen to God when He tells you to reach out, and don't take a day with anyone for granted. Don't assume you'll have a "next time" to tell them that you love them. Because you may not ever get another chance. So be sure you give all you can away to them. Because if you find yourself at some point in my situation, at least you'll have the peace of having no regrets that you gave all you had. 

I miss you already, Marine. You were one of the bravest people I've ever met - not just for what you endured in the war but the way you fought to overcome what happened after. And I loved you for that. You taught me so much about struggle and what it means to attempt to go on. You did the best you could, Sergeant. And now, I'm left to live my life without you in it, and my heart breaks in sadness because of that. After I learned that you were gone, I pulled out the pictures of our visit and began to re-read the emails we exchanged...because it's all I have left to remind me of the unique and precious bond we shared. I can still feel your big, strong hugs and hear your voice echoing in my mind. You will forever be in my heart, sweet friend. I'm thankful we had six beautiful years because I know that, through our friendship, you made my life better. Farewell, Alex. I love you.