July 5, 2012
Going home means getting comfortable being who you are and who your soul really wants to be. There is no strain with that. The strain and tension come when we’re not being who our soul wants us to be and we’re someplace our soul doesn’t feel at home. God loves me enough to let me go through all the lessons I came here to learn, even the ones that hurt the most. His presence doesn’t deny me. It’s always there to help me see and understand what I came to this earth to learn.
I didn’t know the ins and outs of Juan Navarro’s spiritual life. Even if he was the most spiritual guy in his platoon, it’s not like they were all sitting around at the end of the day having Bible study together. However, God met Juan right where he was and gave him this comfort, just in the nick of time. It’s strange how Juan identified his perception of “home” when he was away from home. It’s strange how Juan found peace during war. It’s strange how Juan felt God’s love even though he was hated by the enemy. It’s strange how Juan thought of heaven while walking through hell. This is no accident. This is by design.
For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed to us.
—Romans 8:18 ISV
My heart still grieved, and I did not immediately feel better, but I chose to anchor myself to the hope left behind from Juan Navarro. Eventually, these waters would calm. Sooner or later, we will smile when we mention his name. One of these days, he won’t be the reason we gave up but the reason we press on.
Juan Navarro never attended seminary school or became ordained as a pastor. Yet he has taught me more about seeking God in real time than anyone on earth. As we struggled to continue, I told myself receive God like Juan did.
We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.
—2 Corinthians 4:8–12 (emphasis added)
Juan’s death introduced Josh and me to the peaks and plummets of the grieving process. On one side, we were so thankful for Juan’s final words, words that told us his soul was okay even though his body wasn’t. Then, with one swing of the pendulum, sorrow, confusion, and despair would overwhelm us. In reaction to Josh’s state of mind, I found myself often feeling the opposite of what he was feeling. When he was really down and upset, I reminded him of all the reasons we should be thankful for where Juan’s mind was in the final days of his life. When Josh seemed to be regaining his spirit, I would be reminded of how terrible Juan’s family must be feeling, how young he was, and how much more fighting was left in this deployment for everyone else still overseas. Regardless of what was on our minds, Josh was emotionally unable to hold himself together when he thought about Juan. He dreamed about him and flipped back and forth from frustration to debilitating sadness—all signs and symptoms culminating in a new form of PTSD.
Josh’s reaction was unique to me because it didn’t look like PTSD. It wasn’t like the scenario in the PTSD brochure—you know, the guy sitting at his kitchen counter surrounded by pills and alcohol, cradling his head in his hands because he is tormented by nightmares of explosions and gunfire. His post-traumatic stress came from obsessively thinking about Juan. Both good and bad thoughts brought the same agonizing torment, because Josh felt responsible. Josh would sit really still and stare at the wall, and I could tell he was thinking about Juan. It was not in a way that seemed like he might fall asleep, or even spacing out. He was going somewhere in his mind and reliving all the memories and conversations he had with Juan. Those memories would be pleasant for a little while and maybe even bring a smile to his face, and then the sickening truth of Juan’s death would come creeping back. I was watching light disappear in his eyes. Eventually, Josh would snap out of it and wipe the tears from his face. He would turn on the TV or ask me to take him somewhere in the hospital in his wheelchair.
My whole life, I have never been able to hide my grief or my sadness. If I was going through a loss, small or large, I didn’t shy away from showing my feelings. But my feet couldn’t touch the bottom on this one. I could not suffer alongside Josh without bringing up the things we couldn’t change: how SFC Barrera was recovering, Juan’s death, and his friends who were still over there trying to complete a mission with only bits and pieces of their platoon left. As each day passed, I kept thinking, There is literally nothing I can do about this. Sergeant B still got blown up, Juan still died, and this deployment will continue until it’s time to come home. No matter how any of that turns out, Josh is still here, legless, and unable to do anything about it.
I didn’t want to cheapen or shorten Josh’s grieving process, but after about two weeks of navigating feelings and just trying to find strength to get out of bed, I decided that Josh needed to lean on the new
