Commander Glen A. Krans on diverse responses to an accidental death

When Necessary Use Words

I was on my way back to work from lunch when my cell phone rang. It was a call from my office, informing me that “a chaplain” was needed to respond to an emergency.

The caller’s voice trembled with urgency. A young man, the son of a Marine family from the nearby Marine Corps Air Station, had drowned. The rescue squad was already waiting for me to arrive so they could drive me out to the scene. The family, it was thought, would appreciate having a chaplain present. The emergency workers had made a decision for the family – to call for the chaplain. However, when emergency workers call for the chaplain without the family’s knowledge, my presence is often a surprise and sometimes not entirely welcome. I began to prepare myself for any eventuality.

I usually search my own thoughts and feelings. I try to anticipate possible questions, responses, and needs the family might have. I attempt to discern how I might react if I were in the same situation so that I might be better able to place myself in a helping frame of mind and spirit. Much of that work was done in dialogue with the fire department officer who drove me to the beach.

When we got to the scene, scores of emergency workers, both civilian and Marine, were hurrying about doing what they were trained to do. One of the paramedics briefed me, explaining that the search effort was continuing since the young man was still missing after about an hour’s searching and was presumed dead. He pointed out the drowned boy’s mother who was being cared for by a couple of women who were there when they realized that Michael was missing.

Linda was moaning and crying out, “Lord, Lord; Lord, have mercy; Lord, help him,” in her own spontaneous way keeping up a litany of prayer to the only One whom she thought could help. Linda kept herself turned to the ocean. Her vigil was fierce and unrelenting but not hopeful. Watching her was one of the most dramatic moments I experienced that afternoon.

Linda’s husband, Michael, who was a Marine, was walking energetically, purposefully, back and forth across the beach. His eyes were not fixed hopefully on the surf, but on the beach, where sand met water, as if conducting his own search for the body of his son.

Linda saw me coming toward her. My uniform made it clear that I was the Chaplain. She wanted nothing to do with me. I began to try to make contact with her by circling around, trying to get in front of her so I could address her. She circled with me, keeping her back to me at all times. I understood perfectly. In the military, chaplains are often bearers of bad news. Talking to me would probably feel to her as an admission that her son was dead. I finally stopped circling, put a hand lightly on her shoulder, and asked, “Linda, do you want to talk with me?” Her immediate response was, “No, no.”

I managed to talk with Michael’s dad. He had slowed down his pace a little and had begun to gravitate more toward his wife. He was mostly silent, fearful, but with emotions held solidly in check. He was inexpressive except for an occasional single tear making its slow way down his cheek.

I talked with Michael’s two sisters, as well as a cousin who was with them. They were blown away by what was happening. There was nothing I could do except express my sorrow for their pain and tell them I would stay by them.

I began to feel my ministry to the family floundering until I remembered the words attributed to St. Francis, “Proclaim the Gospel at all times; when necessary use words.” My ministry was to be present to them and with them and in so doing represent God’s presence.

And for that moment, that was enough.

 

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