THEO
IT WAS LATE SEPTEMBER when a man from the town of Wheeler came to Saint Mary’s for confession. He’d been home a year from his tour in Korea, which also included a six-month hospital stay in Germany—same circuitous journey as mine. He said, “Father, I can’t sleep.”
His body leaned against the confessional wall. His breathing was shallow; he spoke softly, the way one talks when the exhaustion of grief has overwhelmed him.
“Sleep can be a gift or a battle of spirit,” I said. “Why do you think you can’t sleep?”
“Why do ya suppose God allows war?”
“Well, I think God allows war so men will see with great clarity what sin really is. Before Korea I thought lightly about sin and was optimistic about human nature.”
“So, you were a soldier?”
“It’s why you drove to Manzanita instead of your own parish, isn’t it?”
“And now . . . since Korea?”
“And now . . . well, I’m not as optimistic about human nature. War forces us to examine our frail humanity. Maybe in examining that frailty you’ll find the antidote to your restlessness.”
“Thing is, I’m not even sure what I need to confess; it’s just, I see them everywhere.”
“Whom do you see?”
“One night,” he said, “at a farmhouse, me, my best friend, and two other guys from our troop found the farmer and his family in the barn . . . beheaded . . . ” He told me the graphic and violent nightmare. One I’d seen a hundred times. In the end his friend was killed.
“I shot the guy who killed him,” he said, “but another grenade blew me off my feet. Landed face down next to my buddy. His eyes were open, staring at me . . . from where? His soul? His dead soul? He just stared like he was askin’ why. The other guys dragged me off to shelter. My hand was gone. Now I’m worthless. Can’t work, can’t sleep, can’t even talk to people I known my whole life. Can’t face his mother, his girlfriend. Can’t tell her I was a coward.”
My hands shook. I sat forward struggling with my memories, trying to do my job.
“Son . . . The souls of men survive the dissolution of their bodies and have an immortal subsistence.” My hollow words, vapors against the mesh dividing us. “Work then, on your soul,” I said, barely able to utter the religious speak when I, too, was lost, asleep between death and resurrection, awaiting some judgment day here or in the hereafter, for all I’d done, all I’d seen.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thing is, dying woulda been easy; livin’s what’s hard.”
The weighty lament in his voice concerned me. Knew it well, knew where it may lead.
“It is hard,” I said with a sudden clarity about what he—what any soldier—needed to hear. I leaned in and said, “Give thanks you had the power to shepherd evil from this world back to God for His swift judgment. Give thanks you were able to do something about the tribulations brought forth by evil men. Be thankful knowing God chose you, and that now you will be healed through His mercy. You shot an animal who killed the blameless. Take comfort that that animal never took the life of innocence again. Because you took action. Be proud, son, for that’s not cowardice.” I sat back from the screen and straightened my collar. A quiet calm washed over me.
He took a deep breath. “Thank you, Father . . . thank you. My penance?”
“Your penance . . . Read Romans 13, about governing authorities being God’s servants, agents of wrath, bringing punishment to the doers of evil. Understand that the Lord uses man-made authority to rain retribution onto the wicked. So, read and find peace in understanding. That’s your penance. Then sleep like sleep is your reward.”