Author's note and disclaimer:Nope, I do not own the copy righted characters of MASH, nor do I own the David Crowder Band's song, Never Let Go. If I did, I certainly wouldn't be biting my nails off when my light bill arrives in the mail! LOL I hope you enjoy this fic and that it touches your heart. God bless.
OH My Soul
It all felt like a nightmare that was larger than life. Less than twenty-four hours ago, the personnel at the 4077th MASH unit were all celebrating the honorable discharge of their beloved commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake; however, the festivities were tragically cut short when news of the easy-going gentleman's death circulated through the camp.
As he settled into his tent, Father John Francis Patrick Mulcahy braced himself for the barrage of grieving officers and corps men who would darken his doorstep for the next several days. Searching for some words of comfort for himself as well as for his parishioners, he reached for the Bible and thumbed through the pages until his blue eyes fell upon Psalm 23.
"Oh Lord, help me … 'The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want'…" The chaplain swallowed a boulder of deep sadness that had formed in his throat. "…'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake'…" Before he could continue, he watched the scriptures swim around in a swirling blur of salty tear drops that made reading almost impossible. "…'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me'…"Again, the priest felt the stinging beads assaulting his eyes, and he removed his glasses so he could dab the small streams away. "…'Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.' Please grant me the strength to receive and console the personnel who will be coming to me. Please let me comfort them in the way that You would, for that is the only way to help lift some of the deep sorrow from all our shoulders."
When
clouds veil sun
And disaster comes
Oh, my soul
Oh, my
soul
When waters rise
And hope takes flight
Oh, my soul
Oh, my soul
Oh, my soul
For hours on end, bereaved men and women came pouring into Father Mulcahy's tent looking for a shoulder to cry on and possibly some spiritual consolation. The clergyman had been duly informed that acting commanding officer Major Frank Burns contacted Dr. Sidney Freedman, asking him to pay a visit to the camp and lighten the burden that was weighing heavily on the Father's shoulders. Because Major Freedman was a practicing Jew, Father Mulcahy offered any officers and enlisted personnel of the Jewish faith the choice of seeking their comfort from him or the psychiatrist who shared their beliefs.
"I hope you understand, Father," a young sentry guard sheepishly said as his eyes met his own boots. "I just need to talk to another Jew … someone who can walk with me as I say good-bye to the colonel in the way I was raised to … someone who can recite the Mourner's Kaddish with me."
"I do understand, my son, this is a trying time for all of us, and we must deal with our loss in our own way … the way that helps us best cope with our feelings over what happened to Colonel Blake."
"Thank you, Father," the corps man choked out his words before exiting the tent.
As if he were witnessing the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, Father Mulcahy watched the private leaving as Corporal Maxwell Q. Klinger, decked out in a basic black dress with pearls and matching hat and high heel shoes, slowly shuffled in and slumped into a chair. He hung his head in shame, for it wasn't so long ago that he, in a recent deep funk of discouragement, ceased to practice Catholicism. How could this kindly priest stand to listen to him now?
"I know you're wondering what I'm doing here, Father," the Lebanese American began, failing to meet the chaplain's eyes. "I have no right to come to you after I became an atheist, but … I didn't know where else to go. I can't stop thinking of Colonel Blake, and I … didn't wanna be alone."
"You are not alone, Maxwell," Father Mulcahy assured the Ohio born draftee in the most soothing tones he had ever used with a parishioner. "I know you've had trouble looking to God lately, but He hasn't left you. No matter how many times we might walk away, He's still with us, and He never lets go of our hands. You may not be ready to talk to Him, but He's always ready to listen."
Klinger silently sat, his eyes fixed on the floor boards underneath his pumps, and the priest allowed him some time to quietly stay put while trying to work out the jumble of emotions that raced through his mind and heart.
Ever
faithful
Ever true
You I know
You never let go
You
never let go
You never let go
You never let go
The hours meshed together to create one large temporal blur, and nightfall had cast its black shadow over the sullen camp. The parade of mourners had trickled to almost nothing, for many of the grieving personnel were drowning their sorrows at the officers' club or Rosie's Bar. Thinking it was time he retired for the night; Father Mulcahy prepared for bed and stretched out on the scratchy Army bunk when a knock could be heard at the door.
"This is the last one tonight; I simply must get some sleep if I'm to be of use to anybody tomorrow," the man of the cloth silently mused as he rolled onto his side and groggily worked himself into a sitting position.
"Father?" Captain Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce somberly dragged his feet into the tent and flopped onto the chair as if he were a puppet whose strings were cut.
Noticing the inebriated surgeon's hooded eyes and dog tired expression, the kindly chaplain felt led to ask as he reached for his beige bathrobe, "Hawkeye, tell me what's on your mind, my son."
"It's not working. I'm drunker than anyone would ever wanna see me, and it's not helping … not one bit. I don't understand … I can almost always drink away what I see in the Or, but now … it still hurts like He- uh, sorry, Father." He abruptly cut himself off before he could swear in front of the catholic man.
"I know this has to be very painful for you, Hawkeye. You have always hated death, and you're forced to see it almost on a daily basis. It's bad enough when you lose an anonymous soldier on your table, but when you lose someone you care about, someone who has come to be a dear friend, it can hurt far worse. The drinks aren't helping you now because the pain you're feeling is far deeper."
"So what can I do about it if the booze won't work?" Hawk muttered, continuing to stare blankly into his lap.
"This may be hard for you to hear, but I think it's what you need. I realize that, according to your records and behavior around camp, that you're a non practicing Methodist. I know you must have trouble wrapping your head around the fact that God loves you, but I want you to know that He does, no matter what you've been doing here at this unit. He especially wants to walk with you through this time of sorrow."
"Tel me something, Father, if God's so loving, then how come He lets good people like Henry, Tommy Gillis, and my mother die?"
"I can't answer that, my son," Father Mulcahy softly said as he placed a warm hand on the chief surgeon's shoulder. "Only God knows why they had to die. He could have been merciful to them and taken them home before illness or injury would have ruined their lives forever; perhaps He felt they had completed their jobs here on Earth; or although He didn't want them to die yet, He might have decided to take a tragedy and turn it around for a greater good."
"What greater good could come after making a family fatherless? What good did it do me to lose my mother when I was a kid?"
"I sense you're feeling a little angry at God right now … maybe even feeling like He abandoned you. AM I on the right path, Hawkeye?" Upon receiving a nod from the raven haired man, the priest continued to speak words of comfort. "I realize you may not be ready to stand in the pulpit, but I truly believe it will help you to turn to Him and lean on Him whenever you feel your heart is too heavy to bear. Just know that God is there for you any time, any place … night and day, in your tent or the OR. You may be feeling angry or forsaken, but He hasn't stopped loving you for one second; and He's still watching over you. When you grow weary and this road gets too hard for you to travel on your own, God is there to pick you up and carry you. … very much like your earthly father used to carry you when you were a small child"
Unable to speak or even think, Hawkeye slumped over and buried his face in his hands. Although he still struggled spiritually, the clergyman's soothing words were enough to open the flood gates so he could have a good poison purging cry. There he sat until Trapper stopped by to take him back to the doctors' tent, otherwise known as The Swamp.
When
clouds brought rain
And disaster came
Oh, my soul
Oh, my
soul
When waters rose
And hope had flown
Oh, my soul
Oh,
my soul
Oh, my soul
With the morning lights came a stillness that left the MASH unit feeling more like a ghost town. Everybody was still so numbed by Henry Blake's death, or so hung over to even open their eyes, that they could barely climb out of bed. Even military minded Frank Burns and Margaret Houlihan dispensed with assembly for the morning and only raised the flag to half staff. The few who weren't too dog tired to rise had been plagued with insomnia and couldn't get up soon enough; Father Mulcahy and Corporal Walter "Radar" O'Reilly were two of these.
Father Mulcahy sat on the edge of his bunk and wished he was able to have gotten more sleep; however, he had to resolve that his body didn't appear to want it at the present time. He had just cleaned his specs and tied the belt of his robe when he heard a light knock at his door.
"Yes?" he hailed before his visitor swung the door open and entered the priest's home.
"I hope I'm not bothering you, Father," the youth sheepishly said as he shuffled over to the chair with his teddy bear in his arms and tears in his eyes, "because if I'm bothering you, I'll come back later, but if I'm not bothering you, I'll just stay here." And talk to you for a few minutes." He removed his steamed up glasses to reveal swollen red rimmed eyes.
"Oh, it's no bother at all, my son. Tell me, what's on your mind."
"It's Colonel Blake, sir. It just seems so unfair that he had to die like this. He was getting ready to go home and see his wife and kids again, but he won't get to see 'em now. He wanted to do so many things that he can't do now that he's dead. He was so good, and he's gone now. Why did it have to be him? It's not fair!"
"I don't know why it had to be him, Radar; I just know that it was him, and there's nothing any of us can do about it. We don't have the privilege of choosing our own time; that one's reserved for the Almighty Himself. The only thing we can do is keep Henry Blake alive in our own memories."
"It hurts too much to think about him." The company clerk hugged his stuffed animal tighter against his chest.
"I know it seems that way now, but God has a way of numbering the days of our grief, and He never lets go of our hands as we walk through each day. Today, it might seem like the pain is bigger than you; but every day, you'll find that pain has shrunk … until one fine morning, you will realize that you are bigger than the pain. Then you will be able to remember Henry with smiles and laughter instead of tears." With that, the chaplain leaned forward and placed a gentle hand on the smaller man's shoulder and began to whisper a prayer for the deeply grieve stricken Radar.
Oh,
my soul
Overflows
Oh, what love, oh, what love
Oh, my
soul
Fills hope
Perfect love that never lets go
High above the country of Korea, a gentleman with salt and pepper hair heaved a sigh and gazed down to the dreary camp that was his home since his drafting into the Army. He was aware that his fellow service men and women were deeply affected by the tragedy, and he was certainly going to miss them too. Suddenly, a pretty lady with chocolate brown curls approached him from behind and spoke his name in a dulcet voice that could sooth the most anxious ear. When he spun around, he found himself staring directly into the sparkling ocean blue eyes that could only belong to one person, a man whom he had appointed his chief surgeon in Korea.
"Mrs. Pierce?" he guessed, staring incredulously into those captivating peepers and cracking a half smile.
"Call me Angela," the attractive woman said as she stretched out her hand for Henry to take. "Come on, it's time to go."
"I dunno ... I never was much for going to a strange place alone … of course, if I wasn't alone, strange places wouldn't bother me, but since I'm alone right now, strange places bother me. I guess it's because they're strange and not familiar. If they were familiar, then I wouldn't mind going alone."
"There's no need to be nervous," Angela giggled. "I will be your guide until you make the adjustment. God realizes that this is a very big change for new comers, so He sends some of us to be guides for them. Even in death, He doesn't let go of our hands." When Henry made physical contact with her, they both glowed brighter than any light that could be seen on earth. "Let's go, Henry; your welcome feast is ready."
Oh,
what love, oh, what love
Oh, what love, oh, what love
In joy
and pain
In sun and rain
You're the same
Oh, You never
let go