“Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him: but weep sore for him that goeth away: for he shall return no more, nor see his native country.” Jeremiah 22:10
His name was Pickering, but everyone called him “Pick.” He never spoke to me, but I talked to him. That was all I could do—talk. He never answered me. Pick never said anything to me, but his silence spoke volumes. In his quiet presence, I found a friend who changed my life.
On July 9, 2010, I was serving in the Army as the Combat Army Support Hospital (CASH) Chaplain at Contingency Operating Base (COB) Adder in Southern Iraq. That was the day Pick came into my life. He was brought into the hospital by air ambulance. He was unresponsive.
I stood at the head of the gurney while the doctors and hospital staff worked to save Pick. I leaned close to his ear and said, “I’m Chaplain Collins. You are at the hospital. The doctors working on you are the best in the Army. Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.” He never spoke back. His eyes remained closed, and his expression never changed.
I have always believed hearing is the last of the senses to go before someone dies. So, I prayed for Pick. I whispered in his ear. Only he could hear me. The medical personnel were oblivious to my prayer as they frantically worked to save his life.
I realized I didn’t know his name. The field medics had cut his uniform off, but a silver chain hung around his neck. On that chain were his identification tags and a little silver cross. Identification tags are also known as “dog” tags. I reached down, took his dog tags, and read his name. HORACE PICKERING.
I leaned into his ear and said, “Hello, Horace.” I smiled and joked, “What kind of a name is Horace? Who names their kid Horace? I bet they call you Pick. Can I call you Pick? We can forget rank, and you can call me James. I am glad to meet you, Pick.” The expression on his face never changed.
One of the medics who came in with Pick screamed, “We are losing him again!” Again? I later learned Pick died twice in the field, and the medics resuscitated him twice. The crash cart was wheeled over, and his heart was shocked. He started breathing again. I whispered, “That a boy. Hang on. Stay with me.”
Pick was finally stabilized, but he was in terrible shape. A ventilator breathed for him. The doctor believed he had been too long without oxygen. The prognosis was not good. The doctor said, “He’s already dead. The machine is the only thing keeping him alive.” I whispered to Pick, “Ignore him. What do doctors know anyway?”
I prayed again. I asked God to save this man’s life.
I pulled a chair up next to his bed. I sat there all night and just talked to him.
Four soldiers from Pick’s unit came to the hospital the next day. We stood around his bed and cried. They said “goodbye” and went back to the war. I stayed by his bedside. He had nobody else. I determined he would not die alone. I sat with him for three days. I held his hand. I talked to him, but he never said a word.
On July 12, 2010, three days after Pick was brought into the hospital, the doctor walked in and pulled a chair up next to me. He said, “Chaplain, I have been on the phone with his family. We are going to turn off the ventilator.” Hot tears rolled down my face. I nodded in agreement.
I stood up and moved back to the head of the bed. As the medical team turned off the machines, I whispered, “It has been a pleasure. I will see you again.”
Then he was gone…
Horace Pickering never said a word to me, but what his death said to me was to make each day count. Before I met him, I was focused on myself and my career, often to the detriment of my family. The time I spent with Pick changed me. A job will not be there to hold your hand when you die. Pick’s death reminds me to cherish everyone in my life and never take them for granted. It’s the people in our lives that truly matter.
Take a walk with your spouse and hold hands. Play games with your kids. Call your parents. Go to church with your grandma. Go fishing with your grandpa. Spend time with your grandkids. Help your neighbor. Take some food over to a sick friend. Make each day count. There may come a time when you wish you could, but it may be too late.
I learned that from Pick, even though he never said a word.
This Memorial Day Weekend, people will come up to me and say, “Thank you for your service.” However, this weekend is not about me or my service. Memorial Day is about a young man named Horace Pickering and the many, many other men and women like him who left their country to never return.
I hope you enjoy your weekend cookout. I hope you enjoy a Monday off work. I hope you enjoy weekend activities with your family. I will enjoy all of those things too, but, God willing, I will spend some time on Monday honoring our nation’s military fallen… and I will cry for my friend, Pick, even though he never said a word.
