After Tragedy: Where Do We Go?

July 13, 2008 started out like any other Sunday. A knock at the door drew my eye through the peephole, clouded by years of Seattle rain. Two erect military officers clenched clipboards.

I threw the door open and pleaded with them.

“Just tell me he isn’t dead.”

The Chaplain’s face was gray, set.

I wanted to slam the door on the featureless beings from Dante’s Inferno. If they returned to the Underworld, maybe Death would release my son.

“I regret to inform you…” the Chaplain began.

Panic engulfed me in waves, destroying all logical thinking. A world without Jason was unimaginable.

The details of his death gave no comfort. His platoon had been sent into the Afghan village of Wanat to establish a Forward Operating Base. Wanat rested in a wedge of the Hindu Kush Mountains, a range along the Pakistani border sweeping five hundred miles to Mount Everest. Insurgent caves tunneled this Taliban stronghold. It was the most isolated and dangerous place on earth for an American soldier.

Army Intelligence warned that hundreds of insurgents awaited the paratroopers, so immediately upon arrival forty men constructed a rudimentary shelter in an open field below the village. Nine others erected an Observation Post on the terrace above. Without enough shovels, they dug into the hard pan soil with their hands. They ran low on food, water and supplies. Women and children fled the village. Vast peaks encased them on all sides.

Three days later, at 4:28AM, machine guns, Rocket Propelled Grenades and mortars rained down on the soldiers from cliffs, trees and buildings. The 9 men at the Observation Post waged a life and death struggle to repel over 200 Taliban from overrunning the main base. Miraculously they succeeded but at a heavy cost. Twenty seven were wounded at Wanat, nine were killed. Eight died at the Observation Post.

Jason was stationed at the OP. The Army report of his death read:

Cpl. Jason Bogar fired hundreds of rounds from his automatic weapon until the barrel jammed. He then tended to Cpl. Tyler Stafford wounds and put a tourniquet around Sgt. Ryan Pitts’ leg before switching to another gun. Eventually Bogar jumped from the Observation Post to get closer to the insurgents firing down upon the men. Outside the bunker he was shot through the chest and killed.

I spent long months in a haze of grief and disbelief. I was mad at God, I blamed myself and I blamed the United States Army.

Then one morning, I went to the garage and opened up the cedar chest that housed all of Jason’s final belongings. I picked up the note that lay beside his paratrooper beret. It was a letter he scribed before leaving for Wanat. He asked one of his buddies to deliver it to us if he didn’t return home. A portion of it read:

To My Family,

I feel my days are numbered and so I want to say this while I can. Never have I felt as strong that what I am doing here in Afghanistan is the right thing and is understood and accepted by god. As a result, death is easier to accept…

….For the man that took my life, I know he felt exactly the same way about me when he killed me. I've always used the analogy if you are told the color blue is green your whole life, you can have all the facts in the world to prove it's blue, but at the end of the day it's still green to you…

Suddenly I realized that if I was going to recover from my son’s death I needed to follow his example: I needed to forgive. It was time to make peace with God, myself and the US Army. If Jason could show empathy—even forgiveness—to the man who was about to kill him, it was my privilege, my duty, to live with the same courage and compassion.

*This is the first in a series for The Huffington Post by Carlene Cross exploring the subject of Reclaiming Joy. Future topics will be: forgiveness, compassion, gratitude, living in the moment, connection to others, finding purpose, letting go, self-compassion.