As Americans commemorate Memorial Day, it is a right civic duty to honor our warriors in the profession of arms who died to sustain freedom. In a society now shriven in attending to faddish trends, chasing clickbait, and grovelling at the idol of the self, at least one day of the year should be elevated in our communal purpose and stature to something more noble, even if inchoately. Perhaps such an aim is aspirational only, a type of self-imposed charge to exercise our collective memory; it is still both admirable and vital to our well-being as a republic. However, difficult as this task is for most Americans, both individually and corporately, it will not be difficult for those of us who left battlefields long past only to realize that those battlefields never left us. For some, memory is not difficult burden but an ever-present companion, even if unwanted.

You see, we carry these battlefields in our minds and conscience, day and night, week in and week out, year after year…they never leave us.  These are the ghosts of war which are our constant servants, always prompting us to never stray too far from them, lest they lose their hold on us. As a former “Padre,” as my British colleagues called me, I tend them always and am their shepherd, these ghosts of war. They are the faces of my friends, the faces of my enemies, the scenes of human carnage which, mercifully, I only had to witness on occasion. I tend them and they tend me; ours is a symbiotic bond. Nights are measured in how little or much they intrude upon me, unbidden as they are, and how much I am still exhausted the next morning or, mercifully, refreshed enough to “Charlie Mike” through another day. I have learned some helpful mental techniques to reframe them, and to perhaps attach a new meaning to their presence, but still, they never want to leave. These ghosts of war make memory for me no hard task at all; I am their shepherd, whether I would have them follow me or not.

Clinicians have often attempted to assuage me that I must understand guilt, shame, anger or contempt to deal with these ghosts. Perhaps, but is this in some sense only covering these memories in a new garment of my own making? What comforts me more is exorcizing them in liturgy, sacrament, and prayer. For it is only at the cross that I discover that these ghosts have no more power; the light of eternality fades them into their bounded temporality. In the triumph of Christ’s resurrection, they recede into the distance of my conscience and I see them no more. Rather, I see the smiles of my friends, their faces now always young and full of hope. I remember with joy—even laughter—times and scenes in combat which made me feel alive in every fibre of my being, with a purpose that seemed to matter beyond the mundane. I see the smile of my living Lord, gathering them into His fold, into His flock. I rightly cede any penultimate authority as a shepherd of ghosts to all eternal authority to the one, truly Good Shepherd. I hear new, fresh words falling on my wounded soul:

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)

I hear, I understand, and I am reborn. My ghosts are gone, and to the only One on whom they will never have any power, to the only One who can hold them in abeyance for all time, to the only One to whom I can truly cede them. In doing so, I am a shepherd of ghosts…no more.