Kate Braestrup - The Blessing

 

I was in a truck with a warden and we're called to the scene of a crime. I'm the chaplain to the wardens in Maine, that's game wardens, not prison wardens. Game wardens are law enforcement officers who enforce fish and wildlife law. But in Maine, they also respond to a variety of wildland calamities. So, snowmobile accidents, all-terrain vehicle accidents, hunting accidents, drownings, wilderness search and rescue. And as their chaplain, I have a dual role. I, like other law enforcement chaplains, take care of pastoral care for the wardens themselves, and I also am called to the scenes of outdoor tragedies to be with family members to comfort and assist them as they wait for their loved one to be brought in from the forest or as they find out that they have been bereaved.

 

Game wardens in Maine have jurisdiction, just like state troopers statewide, any crime, anytime. But when it comes to violent crime, they really only deal with violence against like trout [audience chuckles] or moose. They really don't do violence against people. So, although if there is a violent incident, let's say murder, and it takes place in the woods, the game wardens may help with that or if the weapon has been thrown into the river, the game wardens will help the troopers find and interpret the evidence.

 

And in Maine, law enforcement officers are kind of thin on the ground. So, if there's an urgent call for service, the closest available sworn unit will respond, regardless of what department they're part of. But still, it's the state police chaplain, not the warden service chaplain, who has to confront the theological issues raised by human cruelty. Most of the tragedies I respond to are really the result of foolishness or frailty, not malice. But I get involved more often than you might think. And I've been doing this job long enough, 15 years almost, that I know more about murder than it's comfortable to know.

 

Now on television or in books, killers come in two varieties. There's the serial killer, of course, which is always shown as coldly intelligent and fiendish, not just sort of pathetically bonkers the way they are in real life. And there's the self-interested murderer motivated by greed, who bumps off Uncle Gregory in the parlor to inherit his fortune or whatever. In real life, the most common real-life motivation for violence, whether it's a bar room brawl or genocide, is moral indignation. Like “Their ancestors murdered our ancestors or he disrespected me or she's a whore, she abandoned me. What else could I do?”

 

Well, a few days before the scene we're called to, a man had supper with his friend and over the meal he announced that he believed that he and his ex-wife and their children would all be reunited soon. And the friend took this to mean that they were going to reconcile. And considering that his family members had made it very clear that they considered themselves not so much estranged as escaped from him, like protection from abuse orders and restraining orders and stuff. So, the friend didn't think that it was likely, but he didn't say so. He just let it go by.

 

And a day or two after that, the man brought a shotgun to his ex-wife's house and he shot her and he shot his daughter and he shot his son and then he turned the weapon on himself. And the local police officer arrived just in time to hear that final shot. When the first urgent cry for help went out over the police radio, the closest available sworn units were game wardens. So, game wardens arrived on the scene and game wardens helped to secure the perimeter and secure the crime scene and all of that and the warden I was with brought me to the scene not long after.

 

When I arrived, there was already crime scene tape up around the yard of this little red house. One end of the yellow tape was tied around the pole that held the basketball hoop above the driveway. And there were state police crime scene investigators in blue jumpsuits going in and out of the house. The medical examiner was with them and they were in the house. I stayed outside the house. There were wardens and there were police officers around and paramedics. And in Maine, everyone knows everyone. So, everybody there seemed to have some piece of information about the victims, but none of their information really made it any better. The murdered woman was the kindergarten teacher at the local elementary school and one of the paramedic's kids was in seventh grade with the murdered daughter, and the warden's kid had been in kindergarten the year before. That was the teacher that taught his kid to tie her shoes. "She was wicked nice," he said. "She was a sweetheart."

 

The funeral van came bumping down the driveway and stopped, and two guys in suits and shiny shoes got out and the medical examiner came out to meet them. I intercepted him and I said, "Dr. David, would it be all right with you if I said a blessing for each of the bodies as we bring them out before we load them for transport?" I was prepared to explain this. I was prepared to say, "Dr. David, I'm here to assist and comfort the family,” and there is no family. The family is gone. Or I'm here to provide pastoral care to all these guys in uniform, all these guys who are holding their faces so carefully blank as their gloved hands turn and lift, and as their skilled eyes evaluate and measure, they are forestalling their own rage and grief that they might bring justice. But what justice are we going to bring to this? The murderer murdered himself, too. "Dr. David, I want to retrieve this moment from evil. I want to redeem it. I want to grab hold of it and pull it back here for all of us, for you and for the guys and for the kindergarteners and for the community and for God." As it turned out, I didn't have to explain any of this to Dr. David because Maine is small and we had worked together before, and he was used to me. So, he said, "Absolutely. Absolutely"

 

And the first body bag was brought out and put on the gurney. And Dr. David said, "All right, everybody, Kate's going to pray." [audience chuckles] And the wardens and the paramedics and the troopers folded their gloved, bloody hands across their stomachs and bowed their heads. I stepped up to the gurney and I said, "This is the head end, right?" They said, "Yes." And I raised my hand, preparing to place it on the head end of the body bag and my hand was actually making its descent, coming down like this, when Dr. David said, without particular emphasis, very calmly, he said, "You know, that's the shooter."

 

And one of the wardens afterwards told me he saw my hand stop in the air above the body bag. And he said, "You know, I did wonder what you were going to pray for this guy." Because all I could think of was, "Sorry, you bastard. You're on your own." And I had to admit to him that it was all I could do not to snatch my hand away. So, had we found it? Had we found the threshold at which love stops? God's love, but translated as it must be through our hands and our voices. And if not at this, then at what moment can we honestly say that love no longer makes its absolute, implacable, and holy demand? Love one another.

 

It was easy to pray for the mom and the kids. One at a time, they brought them out. One at a time, I approached the gurney and laid my hands on them and commended them peacefully to God, saying, "Loving and beloved, from human hands to God's embrace. From human life to human memory. From love to love. It's a short step, a brief and blessed journey.” But I didn't know what to say for the shooter. He was dead. He was cooling in his bag. His life was over, and his memory had now been irremediably contaminated with pain and rage and grief. The destination of his immortal soul was very much in question as far as everyone at that scene was concerned. He needed a blessing more than anyone but that blessing was going to have to come from God. I did lower my hand eventually all the way and laid it on the head end of his body bag. All I could do for him was lay my hands on him and say, "Oh, God, I am sorry."  Thank you.