The Homegoing

Thirty-five members of Alpha Surgical Company stood in the parking lot outside the Medical Battalion’s headquarters building. Clad in dress blues, they were thankful for the early morning muster. At Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, the weather is oppressive in August, and they wanted to get on the road before their uniforms wilted.

“Where are my drivers?” I asked. Nine corpsmen pushed through the crowd. “Here are the directions and my cell number. It should take four hours to get there.” I handed each driver a printout. “Any questions?”

“Is it okay if we hit a drive-through? Most of us didn’t go to chow this morning.”

“Certainly. Just watch the time. We can’t be late. The service is at 1230.”

“We’ll be there, Chaps,” the senior corpsman said. He pointed toward the vehicles. “Let’s head out.” The cars filled quickly. When the last one turned right out of the lot, I headed toward my Marine-Corps-red Focus. It sat at the edge of the pavement near an open grassy area.

Four days earlier, Alpha Company had finished their early morning run in that spot. As most of the corpsmen did cool-down stretches before heading to the showers, one sat on a nearby log. “I don’t fe…” he said. He rolled forward and landed face-down in the grass.

His buddies sprang into action. One grabbed the medical bag and tried to revive him with smelling salts. Another checked Airway, Breathing, Circulation, then began CPR. The senior man called the ambulance. A corpsman ran to get me, the chaplain. Nothing his friends did changed the outcome. His heart had stopped, and he was dead when he hit the ground.

I got in my car and headed to South Carolina to attend HN McConico’s funeral. Usually, a unit could only hold a memorial service when they lost someone, but McConico’s hometown was reasonably close. I hoped that making the drive, making the effort to honor him with their presence in front of his family, would somehow make up for what these corpsmen saw as a failure — their inability to save their friend.

Usually when I make a long drive, I don’t listen to the radio. I think. Probably too much. But uninterrupted time is precious. My mind wandered. I sipped tepid coffee, checked out the rural farms I passed and considered what it might be like to live there. I wondered about McConico’s hometown. Was it also rural, or did he grow up in a more populated place? Downloaded directions and a printed map didn’t provide much information in that regard. All I knew was that his hometown was not far off I-95 and was not in a city.

The funeral was to be held in the St. John Missionary Baptist Church in Silver, SC. Since McConico was African American, I supposed this to be a traditionally black church. At least I hoped so.

In seminary, I had taken two preaching courses. One taught us to preach to the “frozen chosen” mainline white Protestant churches like my home church. There, “three-point” sermons were basically a philosophical proof with a few anecdotes thrown in to ensure the congregation had something they could remember. Most of the time, these sermons earned the jokes told about them:

“Do you know what the sermon was about this morning? About ten minutes too long.”

“If all the people who slept in church were laid end to end, they’d be more comfortable.”

“There’s a fine line between a long, drawn-out sermon and a hostage situation.”

The second course entitled “Preaching in the Black Tradition” taught by a renowned clergyman began with this advice: Throw out everything you learned in that other preaching course. People can only be inspired when they’re awake. Here’s how a sermon should go:

Start low… go slow… rise higher… strike fire… sit down.

He said the sit-down part was important because too many preachers continue to talk long after the sermon should have ended. He also taught us about “call and response” preaching, something totally unfamiliar to the frozen chosen. All we ever heard from our congregations was an occasional cough. No one dared to say anything out loud, though I’m certain unspoken rebuttals were common. In the black tradition, repetitive phrases build on each other with pauses to allow for “Um hm,” “You know it,” “Praise God!” “Preach it, sister!” and other utterances that indicate the congregation is making the journey with you.

I’d preached a few times in black churches. I liked how the focus was more on the faith of the congregation than on the talent or lack thereof of the preacher. Even though today’s worship service was a funeral, I felt confident we would all leave feeling better.

A half hour from my destination, I exited I-95 on a two-lane main road. Fast-food restaurants gave way to a few mom-and-pop businesses as the road headed into farm country. I followed the directions to a secondary road which alternately passed by farms and woodland. When I came to the next left turn, I pulled over to reread the instructions. The road sign said: “St. John Church Road,” but the narrow unpaved lane seemed wrong. Shouldn’t a church be in town? Who would build in such a remote spot? And why?

With no other option, I turned into the lane. Dust coated the windshield as I passed between cotton fields and tree groves. I drove cautiously on the unpaved surface. Ten minutes into the drive, I rounded a bend and there stood a white clapboard church. It faced away from me, but the steeple cross let me know I’d reached my destination. I turned on the unnamed dirt road just past the building and parked.

An empty hearse waited by the open front door. Despite the heat, men in suits and ties and women in dresses, heels and hose greeted one another on the steps. The men removed their hats as they entered, but the women kept their veiled chapeaus and fascinators fixed. On the far side of the building, a Navy-blue gaggle leaned on dusty vehicles.

“Nice to see you made it,” I said as I approached them. “Are we missing anyone?” Just then, the last car arrived. When everyone had gathered, the senior corpsman instructed them to inspect each other for dust, crumbs and wrinkles. Then we headed for the side entrance not far from where we stood.

An usher met us on the steps. “Welcome. We’re honored to have Clifton’s friends here for his homegoing. You being here means a lot to his family. Follow me. We’ve saved the space where the choir usually sits so you can all be together.”

As I walked to my seat, the usher noticed the cross on my sleeve. “You’re the chaplain, aren’t you? Wait, let me get the pastor. I know he’d want to meet you.”

I remained in the aisle while the usher retrieved the minister, a pleasant man. We spoke for a few minutes, then I took my seat in the third row of the choir loft next to another sailor. He poked me in the arm. “Chaplain, look over there.” He pointed toward the open coffin. “There’s Clifton.”

“Yes, it’s usual to have the coffin brought to church and for it to remain open until the service begins.”

“No, Chaps. Not in the coffin. Next to it.”

“What do you mean?”

The sailor on his other side pointed as discreetly as possible. “Chaps, over there.”

I turned toward the coffin and a chill ran down my spine. Clifton sat on the front pew staring into the coffin.

Another corpsman leaned towards us. “I saw him when we first came in. The usher told me he’s Clifton’s brother Clinton. I don’t think any of us knew he had an identical twin.”

As disconcerting as it was for us to see Clinton wearing our friend’s face, I couldn’t imagine what Clinton felt staring at his own lifeless image.

At 1230, the funeral director strode to the head of the casket. He turned to face the congregation, folded his hands and nodded. Around the room, folks whispered their goodbyes. Turning back toward the casket, he made sure all was in order, then gently closed and latched the lid. Two pall bearers appeared. Together they wheeled the casket into the center aisle, facing the foot toward the altar.

That’s the tradition. A parishioner is always placed feet first, so if they suddenly arose, they’d be facing the altar. The funeral director won’t do that with me. Clergy are always placed with their head toward the altar so if we suddenly woke up, we’d be facing the congregation. I guess that’s so we wouldn’t lose any time getting back to work. Suddenly I felt tired. It wasn’t just the early morning or the long drive. We were here to bury a young man like the ones shifting uncomfortably in pews next to me.

Once everyone had taken a seat, the pastor stepped into the pulpit. He welcomed the family members by name, then turned toward the thirty-five sailors to his left.

“You honor our beloved Clifton by your presence in our house of worship. I know I speak for his family and this congregation by telling you how important is for us to see that Clifton had a Navy family who cared for him enough to make the journey all the way from Camp Lejeune.”

The sailors nodded. Some were able to smile, others sniffed and wiped their eyes.

“It’s also quite a tribute to Clifton that his battalion chaplain has come to be with us today.”

I raised my hand slightly so the congregation could tell which one of us was the chaplain.

“Chaplain Bender will be delivering the eulogy.”

WHO IS DELIVERING THE EULOGY??????????????? He must be joking. No, he wouldn’t do that at a funeral. He means it.

Every head turned toward me. I smiled and nodded as my brain froze and my blood pressure hit the steeple. Okay, Laura, this is not your first funeral. Get a grip. These people need to hear a word of comfort. That’s all. Out of the blue, an old joke popped into my mind. A preacher stands in the pulpit holding a handful of shredded paper. “My dog ate my sermon,” he says. “I’ll just have to rely on the Holy Spirit to guide my words this morning. I promise to do better next week.” What hubris to think God can only inspire the carefully written word. I took a deep breath.

I don’t remember the prayers or the hymns. All I remember is my name being called and then standing in the pulpit with nothing in my hands. I began with a traditional prayer:

“Let the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.” It was a very sincere prayer.

Start low.

I pointed to the sailors in wilting dress blues. “We had to come here today. We had to be with you to mourn the loss of our friend and fellow corpsman. These sailors before you were on the long run with Clifton. They were there when he took his first pre-dawn step. They were together as the sun rose, and they were there when he finished the race… and when Clifton took his last breath. They were his brothers-in-arms.”

Heads nodded. I took a breath.

Go slow.

“It’s my honor to stand before you and speak about your son, your brother, your loved one, your friend. But I didn’t know him like you did. You were there to celebrate his birth. You were there to watch him take his first step. And you were there scratching your head, trying to figure out if he was Clifton or Clinton.”

“Um hm…”

“You watched him learn and grow, in school and out of school. You taught him manners, how to take care of his things and how to be part of a family.”

“You know it.”

“It was all of you who taught that boy to be a man. You taught him to make good choices. You taught him how to work hard. You taught him to stand up for himself. You taught him to stand up for others.”

“Um hm…”

“And you taught him to love Jesus.”

“Praise God, we did.”

“You know all about Clifton before he joined the Navy. Let me tell you some about who he became.”

Rise higher.

“Clifton was a man who made and kept his commitments. Four years ago, he stood in front of his enlistment officer, raised his right hand and swore to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. To the day he died, he kept that promise.”

“Amen. Amen.”

“Clifton’s first stop on his Navy journey was recruit training in Chicago. It’s mighty cold in Chicago in December, but Clifton toughed it out. He learned to obey orders. He learned to wear his uniform properly and with pride. He learned to think of himself as part of a team. And he learned to love that team.”

“Um hm…”

“Clifton loved that team so much that he chose to be a corpsman. A corpsman, or medic, for those of you who served in the Army, a corpsman is someone special. He’s the person others go to when they’re hurting. He’s the one who patches up cuts, fixes blisters, and medicates sniffles. He man’s morning sick call, afternoon shifts in the clinic and takes his turn on overnight duty.”

“Um hm…”

“A corpsman is a professional caregiver, a secret keeper, a doting momma and a best buddy rolled into one. We never go anywhere without our corpsmen.”

“Praise God.”

“In wartime, injuries on the battlefield can be horrific. That’s when corpsmen are at their best. When things get real, the cry ‘Corpsman up’ is sounded. And these young men and women in front of you are the ones who answer that call. In spite of very real dangers, disregarding personal safety, setting aside fear for their own life, or the memories they’ll never be able to unsee, corpsmen answer the call.”

“Praise God.”

“Now Hospitalman McConico – that’s what we called him – Hospitalman or HN McConico never made it to the battlefield. He trained for it at Field Medical School. He just never got the chance to test his mettle in that arena. But make no mistake, Clifton was ready. Make no mistake, Clifton was willing. Make no mistake, Clifton was committed.”

“Um hm…”

“Turns out, our friend Clifton had a weak heart. But he also had a good heart. He had a heart for his fellow Sailors and Marines. He had a heart for this country, and he served it well and honorably. And he had a heart for all of you.”

“Praise God.”

“Jesus said, ‘Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.’ Clifton did just that. He put aside personal comforts, he put aside the quest for financial gain, he put aside many of the vain pursuits this world calls success and he took up the cross, took up the burden of caring for people in their most distressing moments.

“Preach it, sister!”

“Clifton was a good man. A man you raised. A man you taught. A man of virtue and honor. A man we were privileged to call a friend.” I turned toward the pastor, then back to the congregation. “Your pastor’s going to come up now and tell you about this Jesus you love, in whose arms Clifton now rests.”

I returned to my seat to watch a master at work. Clifton’s preacher struck fire immediately and held the flame until we all knew we’d “been to church.”

After the benediction, six strong men came forward. With three on each side, the pallbearers raised the casket high, then turned toward the door. Gently, they lowered Clifton on to their inside shoulders. As one, they walked forward, out the door, and down the steps. I expected them to place the casket in the hearse. Instead, they headed out to the dirt road and continued their slow pace along its grassy shoulder. Family and friends fell in behind, followed by a sea of Navy blue.

A quarter mile down the lane, our solemn procession stopped. In front of us, fewer than fifty modest gravestones, scattered between roadway and tree line, marked the final resting place of the faithful. No fence marked the graveyard’s borders. No monuments caught the eye. It was nothing more or less than a grassy spot along a dusty road under a pale blue sky.

HN Clifton McConico

September 19, 1979 – August 16, 2002

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