~ by Father Ron Camarda

I wrote the following letter to the People of my Diocese in September of 2004:

Beloved of St. Augustine Diocese,

Here I am!

A statement. A question. An exclamation.

I am attached to Bravo Surgical Company, which is a hospital in the center of Iraq in the town of Al Fallujah, filled with hatred, insurrectionists, people and Marines. Here at Bravo Surgical, about 100 of us are available for the Marines, sailors, and civilians who encounter car bombs, rockets, gunfire and whatever evil devices are created to rip apart the body. Many of the bombs, including suicide bombers, are filled with deadly shrapnel that can mangle legs, arms, feet, hands and internal organs. It is amazing to me how the corpsmen, surgeons, doctors and nurses sustain the lives of many of them and start the healing process before medically evacuating them to other hospitals on their way to their homes in the U.S. The evil ones go to detention centers, but where the civilian foreigners go, it is hard to determine.

I never knew how much blood there was in the face. This Bravo Surgical Team is neither for the faint of heart nor those queasy about blood. The operating rooms are quite sterile, but then when two to six or more are brought in and some go to surgery, blood drips on the floor, stretchers, the gloves of the good medical staff, and the patients themselves. Like a horror movie, pools of blood ooze under the door for a few moments, before being miraculously cleaned up. Here, everyone pitches in. The surgeons often swab the decks, and the nurses comfort with great compassion, healing not only with their skills, but with genuine love and pastoral care beyond them.

Sometimes we even treat our enemies with the same care. This week we treated two people who less than an hour before, tried to plant a horrendous bomb that was intended to kill and maim our own troops in the most evil and gruesome way. My emotions are so varied including tremendous anger and disgust, and I am the chaplain! I must choose to manage my emotions. I must love my enemies. And so as a chaplain I look into the eyes of my shipmates with intensity, thanking them without words and encouraging them with hope that love and good will prevail.

How did Jesus forgive them as they harshly nailed his hands? Blood is red when released from the body; it is the color of super heated fire and evokes unleashed anger. How does His mother forgive as the blood splatters and drips upon her? She is like our surgeons going deep, massaging the heart and keeping the service member alive until God says it is done. To die before he reaches the bloody cross of a pulpit would allow the infectious hatred and evil to spread.

And so, the cross is truly the resting place – so dark, so alone and so desolate. And yet He whispers through the excruciating pain, “Father, forgive them, they don’t know what they do.” We must say of our enemies, “Forgive them, Lord God, they don’t know what they do.”

And then there are times when the Marines drive up with lifeless, breathless bodies that once held life, breath and blood.

In this dusty, dry terrain, blood, sweat and saliva blend quickly into the land, the ground. They are absorbed forever. Oh sure, we return the bodies as best we can to the families, but the blood remains, embedded in the land and in our hearts and painfully, in our fragile minds.

The choice is simple, and yet impossible: bitterness or hope. Allah is not praised in bitterness or in revenge. Allah is praised with forgiveness. God is love. And love will absorb all.

The Marines use the term “Fallen Angel” to indicate a Marine, sailor or soldier who dies, falls to the ground.

In the psalms we sing, “The Lord upholds all who fall, and raises up all who are bowed down.” – Psalm 145:14

I have anointed with the holy oils too many with names like Kevin, Christopher, Sammy, and Andy who were called ‘fallen angels.’ Yet, weren’t we created to be more than angels? God raises us up. God creates us in the Divine Image.

Many others are anointed. Last weekend at the Holy Eucharist, I anointed those returning home this week. They have seen so much death and destruction these past seven months that they needed the healing of Jesus. Emotional scars and bleeding sores can cause great physical sickness and deterioration. Faith can heal. Just ask Jesus. Seeing the vulnerability of the human body and the resilience, I recognize my own internal sin and weaknesses. I find myself more tolerant of the annoying habits of others, and Marines have a number of them.

There are moments I wish to cling to, but if I do I could not survive. The wounded come in like our breath and I release them like our breath.

So often I am captivated for a fleeting moment when I look into the eyes of the Marine, sailor or soldier: moist, intense, confused, enraged, compassionate, angry, disgusted, or unforgiving. I am touched to my core. I am beginning to understand how God must love us, especially in our imperfections and our resistance to the glory of love. If our own infant had these same intense feelings and emotions, we wouldn’t care. We would simply love the child. Yet when we get older, we want to judge those feelings and emotions, which are simply the same. They only belong to a bigger child. Love will cleanse and heal.

Jesus is here.

Where else could I be? Who else could I be?

When is now.

My love for you all in the Diocese of St. Augustine is so intense and full of gratitude. Your prayers are being put to incredible use. God will repay you with more. Be generous with your love.

Peace, Joy, Love,

Father Ron Camarda +

P.S. On Eagle’s Wings and Be Not Afraid are songs we all love to sing out here! We especially like the part about ‘walking through the desert and the flames.’

www.tearinthedesert.com

Father Ron Camarda is a retired Naval Chaplain and author of “Tear in the Desert,” a powerful book containing his memoirs of life and death at the Battle for Fallujah. Father Ron appears on EWTN and recently won the Silver Medal from the Military Writers Society of America.