| A few years ago I had a friend whose name was Norm. He told me a story that I don't expect or even want to ever forget. Norm was a World War II vet. We'd just finished our Veterans Day service where Norm had played his old bugle that he dug out of his old duffel bag. It hadn't been touched in many years (or decades). He'd worked for weeks remembering how to play taps. It meant everything to him to get out that beat-up bugle and practice until he could play taps for the service. We were standing around talking after the service and memories were coming back to Norm that were just as real as yesterday.
He told me his story. It took place somewhere in Germany during the closing months of the war in 1945. Norm and his buddy were standing around after things had quieted down a bit. I don't remember what he said his buddy's name was but Norm remembered it clearly. In his mind's eye he could still see his buddy even as he was telling me what happened. They had been just standing there talking face to face, like buddies do. Just relaxing after having seen some action which Norm didn't explain. While they were chatting a bullet shot through the air, creased across Norm's helmet and entered into his buddy's right eye. Of course, his friend was dead before he hit the ground. Norm could see it all even as he was telling me his story, this trauma that happened over half a century ago but which was still very much alive to Norm. And then it became alive to me too. What Norm said then to me I'll also never forget. Norm said, "Chaplain, you're the first person I've ever told that story to." Can you imagine holding something that personal, that precious, that intense and that important all these years? I don't mind telling you I was honored to be the recipient of such a story. It's OK for me to tell it to you because in telling his story, it gave Norm such a sense of release that he went on later to tell it to our vets group a few days later. He also told of what else happened. Other soldiers shot the sniper out of a tree. He was a German boy who looked to be only about fifteen - a powerful and traumatic incident of war. Used with permission |
I am a most fortunate person as I hope you are too. I have friends that I love greatly. They are of enormous value to me. My life without them would be poorer indeed. I hope, and believe, that I am such a friend to them as they are to me. I hope and trust that they recognize my friendship and love and that I properly recognize theirs. I honestly believe this is so. Therefore, I am not only most fortunate, but I am wealthy beyond measure. May I not forget and may it not take trauma for me to recognize my friends. With many it has happened that our friendships have been tried through stressed times and hard memories. And they may be tried again. That's what the strength of the love of friends is about. 
he was fortunate in having such a friend that he could not only still remember his name, but could still see him in his mind's eye, even through such a traumatic event. Losing a beloved friend is a hard thing. Not having a beloved friend to lose is harder by far.