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The Pastoral Lens
Hidden Wounds, Hurting Warriors
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
As we come to another Remembrance Day celebration this week I am even more reflective than I usually am at this time of year. Being the son of a World War II veteran has always put me in a frame of mind to be appreciative of the men and women of uniform who serve and have served our country. Yet I am confronted this time around with a newfound understanding of the pains and struggles of many who return from their tour of duty. Although having survived the ravages of war, they return to their families and their country wounded, deeply wounded. The medical profession calls their disorder Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) or Operational Stress Injury (OSI). To those who suffer, though, it is simply a nightmare which keeps recurring, affecting their peace of mind and the stability of their family relationships.I began to understand some of the hurt these people suffer through when a support group was started at our church a number of months ago. It is not a structured time but rather a casual time of safe, compassionate space for stories to be told and caring to be shared. I was not prepared for the description of the horrors of war that came into my listening ears. Seeing your buddy blown up leaves a wound with a scab that recurring flashbacks keep tearing off. Many vets suffering from PTSD can't attend a community's Canada Day fireworks display because the sounds and the flashes are just too real for them.
Long before the medical profession actually identified this malady one of Canada's most famous war time poets grappled with it. He is Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, a doctor and veteran of both the Boer War in South Africa and the First World War. As a medic in the latter, he spent one memorable 17-day stretch in Ypres treating injured soldiers from Canada, Great Britain, and other nations. McCrae later wrote of this horrific ordeal: "I wish I could embody on paper some of the varied sensations of that seventeen days...Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day if anyone had told us we had to spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands and said it could not have been done." The death of a young friend and former student, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, particularly affected McCrae. Killed by a shell burst, Helmer was buried later that day in the little cemetary just outside the medical station. McCrae himself conducted the funeral ceremony in the absence of the chaplain. It was the next day, while venting his pain over the young soldier's death that John McCrae penned the now-famous poem we know as "In Flanders Fields." It was during a 20-minute rest time, while gazing at the man's grave and watching the wild poppies blow in the gentle breeze, that the immortal words were composed. These important words would have been lost to us forever if not for the actions of a young sergeant-major, Cyril Allinson, who was on mail duty that day. He retrieved the crumpled poem, which the dissatisfied McCrae had discarded, and saw that it got published on December 8, 1915. The rest, they say, is history.
I have a hunch that John McCrae knew then what so many know now, that the wounds and terror of war do not end on the field of battle. No, they live on, mercilessly tormenting their victims long after the guns have gone silent. But it doesn't have to stay that way. Long ago, in a village called Bethlehem, there was One born who would be the Healer of all hurts. It was prophesied about Him that "a bruised reed He will not break, and a dimly-burning wick He will not snuff out" (Isaiah 42:3). There is hope, tremendous, real hope in the Saviour. My prayer this Remembrance Day is that all who need that hope will find it in Him. Lest we forget!
