It was my day off and I was enjoying a cup of coffee as I lounged around deciding what to do that day – until the phone rang.

It wasn’t good news. While this was something I volunteered to do and something I had trained for, at that very moment I didn’t think it was something I could do – and it most certainly wasn’t something I wanted to do – but I was duty-bound, honor-bound and obligated to do it.

I wasn’t getting sent to Iraq or Afghanistan; that I could accept. Rather I, along with our State Chaplain, Col. Andrew Meverden, were called upon to knock on a stranger’s door and tell  her that her loved one’s selfless service caused him to make the ultimate sacrifice in service to our country – and I didn’t think I had the strength to do it.

A culture of selfless service, an obligation to duty, and a stream of fellow Soldiers who have been there before, help to mentally prepare you for a deployment to theater. Nothing could help me prepare for this.

As initial reports came in, I was told it was the wife of a fallen Soldier that I was to contact; a wife with young children. With children myself, this seemed an ever more daunting task, weakening my already fading strength. I thought of my own children and cried.

My dress uniform was at work so I hurried there to get it. In the car, I turned on the radio to distract me from my thoughts. I never heard a word on that radio as my mind raced. I saw a church on the side of the road. I considered stopping to see if it would help – I was afraid to tell my own state chaplain, the one who I was doing this with, that my strength was faltering – but I opted against it.

I soon discovered that I’d be knocking on the door of a Soldier’s mother. I momentarily believed that not having to see the faces of children as they first learned of the loss of their father would somehow make this easier. Then I envisioned the face of his mother and having to inform her that she had outlived her son. Nothing was going to make this task any easier. Somewhere out there were another Soldier like me and a chaplain mustering the courage to knock on that door.

Out of respect, the primary next of kin, the Soldiers wife, was to be notified first. Then as quickly as possible, the notification of the Soldier’s mother was to follow.

Chaplain Andy, as he prefers to be called, contacted me and told me we’d be making this call together. We decided on a nearby location to meet and review paperwork, then drive together to the mother’s house. Meverden said that I was to try to get as much information out as I could, as best as I could. He explained how important it was that we deliver this message inside the house and not on a doorstep.

Before we left we prayed.

Together we reviewed how, on behalf of the Secretary of the Army, I was to extend our deepest sympathies about her tragic loss. I believed the sympathies were genuine. I believed that everyone in this Soldier’s unit and his chain of command regretted his loss and greatly appreciated his service – I knew I did.

But I also knew it wasn’t enough.

I was about to go into the worst fight of my life unarmed – save for a mere piece of paper extending sympathies and regret. I was starting a battle that had already been lost.

We drove to a rural Colorado neighborhood and spotted the home. We drove a few blocks past it and called in to let the Casualty Assistance Center know we were about to knock on the door. We stepped out of the chaplain’s personal car and put on our service jackets. At that moment, a woman was driving past us. The sight of two Soldiers in their dress uniforms caused her to slow down and stare. Did she know why we were there?

We drove up the mother’s driveway and stepped out. I looked all around us, wondering if anyone would notice two uniformed men approaching her door. It could only mean one thing. As we approached, I stared at the front window and tried to imagine how this was going to turn out.

After several attempts at the door, we determined no one was home. I was relieved that I was able to postpone this inevitable and unenviable task.

We took off our jackets and attempted to find a neighbor who might be able to tell us where the mother might be.

We found a neighbor across the street who was home. We told her who we were looking for but not why. With a matter of fact tone she commented that she knew that the mother’s son was also in the Army. She paused. It had suddenly hit her. “Oh no! … That’s why you’re here isn’t it?”

We both just looked at her and she began to cry.

She informed us that the mother had sold her home and moved. She didn’t know where. but she knew the mother’s daughter and could contact her. Both the Chaplain and I agreed. The neighbor dialed her and handed the phone to Chaplain Andy.

Meverden explained to the woman that we were from the military and we were looking for her mother. He didn’t explain why, just that it was important. Through the phone I could hear the sound of her voice failing.

It hadn’t occurred to either of us until that moment that this was the Soldier’s sister, and she knew why we were looking for her mother. She started to cry and I couldn’t stop my eyes from watering.

I took as many deep breaths as I could to gather my composure. It helped, but not much. The Soldier’s sister informed us that her mother was living with her. She offered to call, but we insisted that what we had to say needed to be said in person. She said she would come to us and take us to her mother. Overhearing this, I asked if she would be alright to drive. She tearfully said she could.

A short time later, a car drove up and the sister stepped out of the passenger seat. Her coworker happened to live down the street from her and had agreed to escort her. We would be able to wait at the coworker’s home there until the Soldier’s mother came home from work.

We followed the car to the woman’s home. Both the chaplain and I noticed the “Support the Troops” stickers adorning the bumper. As we drove into the coworker’s driveway, we noticed a flagpole outside with both the U.S. and Colorado flags flying high, as well as more “Support the Troops” stickers.

Meverden took this opportunity to spend some time with the sister. “He’s walking the streets of gold with dad now isn’t he?” she asked. Meverden agreed but she needed no confirmation. She was certain.

I took this time to rehearse the words I hoped I’d be able to speak.

We soon learned that the mother had made it home and it was time to go. The daughter said she would go in first – she wanted to ensure that her mother was there and available – so we donned our service jackets again and drove around the corner to her house.

The daughter opened the door and called for her mother. She asked her to come into the living room then nodded at us to enter. Entering that house, it felt like a wind was pushing me somewhere I had no intention of going. Stiff-legged with heels dug in, I was forced through the front door and into the house.

I met the mother in the middle of the living room. I forgot to ask her to sit down. I needed to sit down. I struggled to get out as much of the message as I could. Chaplain Andy knew I wasn’t going to get it all out. No one ever does. Her shoulders sank and her eyes filled with tears. She said I was her worst nightmare.

The chaplain and I sat down with her and I completed the rest of the message. He offered her his condolences and comforted her. I heard her tell Meverden, “His son didn’t want him to go to Afghanistan because he was afraid he would die.”

My service jacket began to constrict around my chest as I began to heave and sob. I was barely able to hold back tears. I struggled to control my breathing and keep in control.

Fortunately, it was time for me to leave her with the chaplain and let the Casualty Assistance Center know that the message was delivered. I stepped outside, gathered my composure and made the call. I used the momentary respite to collect my thoughts and make sure I had provided her all the information I was supposed to.

I returned to the mother and the chaplain and finished a few of the items I had to discuss. Then I walked into the kitchen to talk with the daughter. I gathered some information from her as Meverden spent time with the mother.

It was almost time for us to go. Meverden gathered us together to pray just before we departed. As we were about to leave, the daughter pulled her brother’s photo from the mantel and asked if we wanted to see it. Agreeing, we both looked at the photo, but I hardly saw him. Instead, I saw his children – the children I thought I wasn’t going to have to see.

From behind me, I heard the mother say, “Where’s my wallet? I want to show them his photo.”

My reaction to her brother’s photo was apparent because she said, “Don’t mom. It’s just going to make it harder on them.”

I couldn’t keep my composure any longer. I stepped outside and cried.

A few moments later the chaplain stepped outside and the two of us drove away. As we passed the coworker’s house, I noticed that her flags were already at half-mast. I pointed it out to Meverden.

“Isn’t that something!” he exclaimed. “There are four things worth dying for: family, friends, freedom and faith. This family has them all.”

As we drove off I held myself stiff, staring straight ahead as one does when car sick and waiting for the stomach-churning to subside. It didn’t diminish.

I was embarrassed at my inability to keep my composure and how I lacked the strength to do this task. But Chaplain Andy explained that my reaction was common.

He explained to me how, a few years back, he assisted a young Marine Corps officer make a notification. The Marine said he was going to deliver the message as quickly and as bluntly as possible.

Meverden explained, “No, you’re going to let them know with respect and compassion.”

“Yeah right,” the Marine replied.

As they both approached the fallen Marine’s mother, Meverden noticed his fellow officer’s hand start to tremble. His mouth quivered and he began to cry uncontrollably – he couldn’t utter a word. He tried to find strength in bravado and it failed him. After a few moments, the mother put her hand on the young Marine’s shoulder and said, “I know. Just tell me how it happened.” Even in that moment, she was still a mother.

Chaplain Andy dropped me off at my car and wished me well. I drove home again with the radio on, but I was lost in my own thoughts. I knew that while my journey was just ending, another family’s was just beginning, as was the journey of the Casualty Assistance Officer, whose role is to provide continuous assistance and counsel on all matters concerning the deceased Soldier. The CAO’s task would be no less daunting and no less emotional. I suspect it will also leave an equally indelible impression on his memory as this did on mine.

Arriving home, I hugged and kissed my wife and told her how much I loved her, and then I picked up each of my five children and hugged and kissed them and told them that I loved them, too. As the younger ones noticed the hug fest, they didn’t want to be left out and reached to be next.

Did I lack the strength? Did I act as anyone would have? Maybe no one is supposed to have this amount of strength, but I’m proud to know that I belong to an organization that cares enough to deliver this message in person and that also provides the services of a Casualty Assistance Officer.

I reported to the Soldier who first called me and let him know that I was home and that we had completed our task. He said that he would take my name off the list. “This is too hard to have someone do more than once,” he said.

Perhaps it was my own bravado, but I replied “Are you sure? It might be easier the second time.”

“Trust me, it never gets easier,” he replied.

Looking back, I realize that I was armed with more than just a piece of paper. I was armed with compassion and respect. The respect for the service of a man I never met, and the compassion for a loss that wasn’t my own.