By Ray Dupere

     For lack of any better ideas, when I resigned my commission a year after coming back from Vietnam, my wife and I decided to try out life in the Green Mountain State of Vermont.  When we first started to work on implementing our plan Avril imagined herself as a high school choir director and I a high school math or science teacher.  Half of our plan worked out perfectly when she became the choir director at Hartford High School in White River Junction, Vermont.  The other half of the vision had me standing in front of five classes a day in our middle school teaching fifth grade math.  Life doesn’t always work out quite as you might imagine.

     Even though the 125 or so 11-year-old kids were not highly stimulating, I still enjoyed working with them none-the-less.  I especially enjoyed working with the kids in my one class of over-achievers.  We ended up working through the required textbook by the end of February, so I had to ad-lib for the remainder of the year.  It was actually quite fun to try all kinds of new ideas out on them, all of which they excelled at and enjoyed.  Interestingly, years later I found out that one of my absolute brightest students, a young Hispanic girl, graduated from West Point with the Class of 1985.

     Though I enjoyed working with my students, the kids I ended up spending the most time with were the students in my wife’s various choirs and ensembles.  After my teaching day was done, I would wander over to the high school and hang out with them as my wife finished up the day working with different kids on songs or duets or whatever might be happening at the time.  Being a young couple in our late twenties with no kids of our own, quite a few of the teens enjoyed spending time with us … and we with them.

     While all of this was happening, we were also getting more and more involved with a little Baptist church that we had discovered while driving around with our realtor looking for a house.  And as part of that increasing involvement, we became quite avid helpers with the church youth group.  Almost all the kids in the youth group went to the high school my wife taught at, and several were even in her choir.  So, our first year of teaching was spent learning our jobs, and growing in our faith, and doing typical high school teacher and youth group leader type stuff.

     Towards the end of our first year, we began to become quite strong in our desire to want to live our lives as fully-devoted followers of Jesus Christ.  To that end we became quite burdened with a desire to share our faith with the teens that we were routinely interacting with on a daily basis.  So, during the summer between our first and second year we began to plan for a special event that we would hold at our house the first week of school in September.

     When the designated Saturday arrived, we ended up with about 25 teens over at our house where we plied them with hot dogs and hamburgers and everything a teen could want to eat.  The mealtime was then followed by a time of sharing and singing of songs.  Avril and I and some of our youth group kids shared about how we had become Christians and about how important our faith in God was to us and the way we lived our lives.  We closed out the evening by inviting them to come back the next Saturday night for a Bible study for any who were interested.  The following Saturday about 15 of the original 25 showed up.

     After that first Bible study session I realized that the kids who had decided to come back needed to have Bibles of their own.  So, I went to a nearby Christian bookstore and ordered a dozen Bibles.  I wanted to make sure that each one of them who didn’t already have a Bible had one of their very own.  In due course the Bibles arrived, and we passed them out to all the kids.  We really enjoyed seeing them diligently use them over the next year as we met almost every Saturday night for our group studies.

     The twelve brand new Bibles ended up costing me $142 and change, which was a good hunk of money in those days.  But I really felt that it was something that God wanted me to do.  Not long after giving the Bibles out I received a very official looking piece of mail from the Defense Finance and Accounting Office at Fort Benjamin Harrison, Ohio.  In it was a check for some back pay that I was owed.  There was a note explaining that a random audit of my pay records had been performed and that I had been underpaid at one point during my time in Vietnam.  The check in the envelope represented the amount that I was owed plus any accrued interest.  The check was for $142 and change.  To this day I remember the amount because God taught me a great lesson through this experience.  When you step out in faith and do what you believe God is calling you to do, He will be with you every step of the way.

     The following year Avril and I left White River Junction, Vermont, and I headed off to Dallas Theological Seminary to study for full-time ministry.

But when we left, we left behind quite a few young teens who had come to faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and who went on to live their lives for Him.  One young girl from our group ended up becoming a medical missionary, and one of the young men ended up going to seminary himself and becoming a minister of the Gospel.  As I’ve said before, God has truly given us a blessed life indeed.

You’ve probably figured out by now that one thing I had to deal with as a pastor and as a chaplain were issues surrounding death and dying.  So, it was not uncommon for me to receive phone calls from parishioners asking me to visit people in the hospital.  The following are two such stories of that particular kind.

The first involved a call from an elderly lady in my congregation up in Hampden, Maine, asking me to visit her older sister who was in the hospital following a heart attack.  Since such requests were not unusual, I agreed automatically.  But then she went on to tell me that I needed to be careful because her sister did not believe in God and got very angry whenever anybody tried to talk to her about God.  I thanked her for that information and headed out to the hospital.

After inquiring about her room number at the information desk, I headed to the room and found Edna easy enough.  I introduced myself and as soon as I told her that I was her sister’s pastor she looked like she was a deer caught in the headlights.  It was quite obvious that she was very uncomfortable with me being there, so after talking for a few minutes about rather innocuous things I said my good-bye and went home.

A couple of weeks later I received a call from the same church lady telling me the same sister was back in the hospital after another heart attack asking if I would visit her again.  I said I would and headed back out to the hospital all the while asking God what in the world I was going to say to Edna this time around.

I found out her room number and this time as soon as she saw me, she was again the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.  We talked for a couple of minutes about nothing and then out of nowhere I asked Edna if she would do me a favor.  She asked what favor and I proceeded to tell her that since she was in the hospital for the second time in two weeks with a heart attack, I would consider it a great favor if she would please just let me do my job … at which point she very simply said yes.

At that point I began to explain to her about how God loved her, and He wanted her to be able to know for sure how she could go to heaven if she were to die of her next possible heart attack.  I explained how Jesus died on the cross for our sins and about the promise of God the Father that whoever believed in Jesus should not perish but would have everlasting life.  I then asked her if she would like to receive the forgiveness that Jesus promised and be able to have the assurance of heaven … to which she said yes.  I prayed with Edna and when we were finished, she had tears running down her cheeks and she thanked me profusely for coming to see her.  Following this, Edna recovered quite well and began attending church with her sister for a number of years afterwards.

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The second story also started with a phone call from a younger woman named Kate asking me to visit her brother who was in the hospital dying of emphysema.  When I agreed to visit him, she told me he was a Vietnam veteran and suggested that perhaps if I wore my Maine National Guard chaplain uniform it might help break the ice.

 

 I agreed and went home to change and then headed out to the hospital.

After asking for the room number, I found the room and was surprised to walk in and find a man simply sitting on the edge of his bed looking up watching television.  He had absolutely no tubes or IV’s or anything.  He was just sitting there with his feet dangling down looking up at the TV.  Thinking maybe I had the wrong room, I asked if he was Kate’s brother and when he said he was, I then introduced myself as her pastor.

For about a good half hour we proceeded to talk about Vietnam and where we had been assigned and we talked about all kinds of other things as well.  Eventually when the conversation began to slow down, I asked if I could tell him a story.  He agreed quite easily so I then began to tell him the story about the little old lady named Edna mentioned above.  That story had become a favorite of mine since it became a very easy way for me to break the ice about spiritual things with someone I didn’t know well.  I would simply tell the story and then ask whomever if they would please, like Edna, let me do my job.  So, this is what I did with Kate’s brother dying of emphysema.

He readily agreed so I shared with him just as I had with Edna that God loved him and wanted him to know how he could be sure that if he died, he would go to heaven.  In his case I asked him if it was true what Kate had said that he was dying of emphysema.  He said that is what he had been told by the doctors.  I asked him how could that be since he had no tubes or IV’s or anything.  He said he didn’t quite know anything other than that’s what the doctors had told him.  So, like with Edna, I asked him if he would like to receive the forgiveness that Jesus promised and be able to have the assurance of heaven … to which he said yes he would.  I then prayed with him and when we were finished, he had a big smile on his face and he thanked me for coming to see him.  It was about 4:00pm so I said my good-bye and said that I would be back the next day to check in on him and see how he was doing.

Later that evening about 8:00pm I received a phone call from Kate saying that her brother had died.  Like the thief on the cross … it was simply one more reminder that it is never too late to take the time we have to get right with God.

San Marcos Cemetery, San Marcos, Texas: The San Marcos Cemetery is what I think of when I think of a cemetery. It was not large, nor was it flat, nor was it isolated, nor was it visible from the nearby main road. Rather it was secluded on a gentle knoll with lots of trees and simply lovely in every way. However, it did present one of the problems which I had always imagined might occur on the trip. As it turned out the cemetery had at least two family plots for people named Ivey. Whether they were related or not I never found out, but the information I had been given by the cemetery prior to leaving on my trip was for the wrong plot. I wasn’t too worried when I was the first to arrive and discover the error. I knew that Karl Ivey had been there the day before so I expected that he could set us straight once he arrived, and in any case a nearby cemetery worker was able to redirect me accordingly. As with the service the day before, the 15 of us at Glen Ivey’s service was also under a scorching sun, and although there were trees everywhere, they were not spreading out over Glen’s grave. Of the twelve services that I ended up doing, over half of them were on days that were quite warm. But true to form, Texas laid claim to being supreme by having the hottest weather of all. To read Glen Ivey’s Memorial Article click here.

 

Oakwood Cemetery, Winona, Mississippi: I tend to suffer from an obsessive-compulsive tendency. I say suffer because that is my wife’s claim. My claim is I am meticulous. It is why I tried my hardest to get as much information as I possibly could from the cemetery offices before ever leaving my home in Connecticut. I already mentioned that in one case I was sent the wrong information. In the case of Oakwood, I was sent no information at all. However, I knew that Guy Hester’s widow, Elsie Lynn, would be present so I did not fear being unable to find Guy’s grave when the proper time came. Though I was not able to visit all the cemeteries the day before, when I had the chance I did try to, and Oakwood was no exception. I drove up and down the lanes looking for a Hester family headstone, but to no avail. The next day when I and the almost 30 others arrived for the service, Elsie Lynn was there and the headstone was easy to spot, but I never saw it. There were a number of times when my obsessive-compulsive nature proved insufficient to the task, but God never did. To read Guy Hester’s Memorial Article click here.

Blue Ridge Memorial Gardens, Beckley, West Virginia: If you have never been to West Virginia you need to do yourself a favor and visit it. In some respects, it is like no other state I know. If you are not going up the side of a hill or mountain you are going down, or vice versa. Which actually makes Blue Ridge Gardens a bit of an anomaly. Not that it doesn’t have any slopes, for it does to be sure, but it is not nearly as hilly as I might have expected. And as it turns out, Jim Smith’s grave is on a relatively flat portion of the cemetery in any case, which, of course made it easier on the 15-16 of us who attended. It is at least reasonably possible that I am one of the most experienced members of our class when it comes to trying to find specific graves in specific cemeteries. As a minister I have spent more than my fair share of time in them. I had fairly specific information. I knew that Jim’s grave was in the Everlasting Life Section, Site 39, Plot A3. And I had a map with an X marks the spot designation. But it still took some time to find it. I probably walked right by it several times before finally spotting it once and for all, but once I finally did it felt good. It was going to be the last time I would be responsible for finding a grave on my trip. The next time at Arlington that job would have already been done by somebody else. To read Jim Smith’s Memorial Article click here.

Arlington National Cemetery, Arlington, Virginia: In my post-trip after-action report I mentioned the special nature

of being at Arlington National Cemetery. As a retired National Guard Chaplain, just being there was very special for me. But to be there to lead a memorial service for Hank Schroeder that would be attended by 45 classmates and spouses was almost beyond words. Even now as I try to write I find it much harder than for the paragraphs above. With those the words flowed easily, but for Arlington I am almost without words. Perhaps that is because from the top of my now-balding head to the bottom of my flat feet I am a military man. I was born at Fort Benning, Georgia, and raised on military bases all my life as a child. I probably heard the name Arlington National Cemetery before I ever really knew what it was or understood its significance. Even to this day I have not yet been able to give it the time and attention it deserves. The two times I have been there were both for very specific purposes, so I have not yet been able to visit as a tourist. I have yet to visit the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which I have to say is a bucket list item for sure. I do not have the credentials to be laid to rest there, but Lord willing I will see it again. To read Hank Schroeder’s Memorial Article click here.

West Point Cemetery, West Point, New York: I hope that what I am about to say is not considered sacrilegious. To my mind, the thing that makes the West Point Cemetery special is simply the fact that it is at West Point. That and of course the people that are buried there. As cemeteries go, it is not the most beautiful one I have ever been in. It is not the largest one. It is not the most well-kept one. Nor is it the most significant one. But it is the only one at West Point, and for that reason it has a specialness that no other cemetery can hold a candle to. There are many great people buried at Arlington, but there are great people buried in cemeteries all over our country. But West Point is like no other place, and those of us who were privileged to go there know that only full well. I was not a very special person before arriving at West Point, and I was not a very special cadet while I was there. I cannot speak for the twenty or so who attended, but just being a cadet made me feel special, and I have felt special ever since. B Arnold and the Traitors could sing, “We got to get out of this place!” with pure passion and truth, but every one of us knew we would never be able to get West Point out of us. And that is what makes the West Point Cemetery so special. For those like Joe Silva, Jon Shine, Pick King, Paul Sawtelle, John Woodrum, Harry Thain, Chip Oliver and Ken Yonan, who end up being buried there, it is like saying that when our time has come, we simply want to go home one final time.

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 To read Joe Silva’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read Jon Shine’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read Pick King’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read Paul Sawtelle’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read John Woodrum’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read Harry Thain’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read Chip Oliver’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read Ken Yonan’s Memorial Article click here.

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Before I close, I would like to say a special thank you to all those who attended the twelve services. It was a great encouragement to see how selfless our classmates were in hosting me during my travels, and in taking the time to attend, as well. In several cases, former roommates and friends travelled great lengths to attend different services, whether from Washington, D.C. to Detroit and West Virginia, or from Florida and Texas and Chicago to Montana, or from various points of origin to Texas. At every service, there was at least one other classmate besides me in attendance, and often many more. It was also encouraging in three instances to see local folk turn out as well due to the event being publicized in hometown newspapers. All in all, it was one of the most rewarding things I have ever done in my life and ministry.

A Semi-Final Place: I titled this piece “A Semi-Final Place”. Obviously, I did so with a distinct purpose in mind. It is because no cemetery is the final resting place for anyone. The Bible teaches us that all souls will one day all be raised from the dead … the just and the unjust alike. No one who has ever lived will remain in the place where they were laid to rest. Even those who due to some misfortune or another did not have the luxury of a “final resting place” will be raised from the dead. According to God’s perfect plan there will come a day when everyone’s soul will be reunited with their body. The fact of the bodily resurrection from the dead is part of the declared purpose and plan of God. In fact, there will be two resurrections, and not just one. And as Revelations 20:6 says, “Blessed and holy are those who attain to the first resurrection.”

I was recently watching a Season 2 episode of “Designated Survivor” and the closing scene showed President Kirkman and his brother standing at the grave of the First Lady who had died a few episodes earlier. As the camera panned away and the cemetery came into view, I realized I could use the cemeteries as a theme for a story about my trip. By “my trip” I’m referring to the cross-country trip I took this past July to do memorial services at the graves of our eleven USMA 1969 classmates who fell in Vietnam and who are not buried at West Point.

The final service for the eight buried at West Point was held in late November. Such a theme may put some potential readers off, but as a pastor part of my job is to help people to find peace with God in the face of death. With that in mind, bear with me as I reflect on the semi-final resting places of our classmates.

Grand Lawn Cemetery, Detroit, Michigan: Detroit is known as a place that was once a great city but is now a decaying relic of its past greatness. Grand Lawn Cemetery rests in the presence of some of that decay, but as its name suggests, it is a lovely reminder of what the city once was. At about 30 city blocks, it is a large cemetery, and Barry McGee’s grave is under a small tree in Section 27, which is in the far right-hand corner of the cemetery. The section is about the size of two football fields end-to-end with no upright grave markers. The flat marker was all by itself with no obvious evidence of other family members being buried nearby. It was covered with dirt and small branches and some overgrown grass, which is what you might expect with no known next of kin. However, when the nine of us who attended left after the service, the marker looked presentable and should remain so for a little while longer. To read Barry McGee’s Memorial Article, click here.

Ridgelawn-Mt. Mercy Cemetery, Gary, Indiana: As cemeteries in bigger cities go, Ridgelawn-Mt. Mercy is probably just about as typical as they come. It consists of a rectangular tract of land bordered by West Ridge Road on the north and West 41st Avenue on the south; and it rests in a fairly ordinary residential/commercial area of the city. It is well-maintained which is what you would hope for your loved-one’s final resting place. Terry O’Boyle’s grave is in a family plot bordering on a secondary lane leading into the cemetery from West Ridge Road. As with Barry McGee, there were no known next of kin, which perhaps explains why the family plot was neatly kept, but the grass around Terry’s flat marker was a bit overgrown. So much so that when I asked a cemetery worker to help me find it I discovered that I was almost standing on top of it. Unlike national military cemeteries which are all beautifully kept, I did wonder as we five classmates left, who will clean the overgrown grass off Terry’s marker the next time? To read Terry O’Boyle’s Memorial Article click here.

Oak Hill Calvary Cemetery, Corning, Iowa: As is probably the case with many small towns in America, Oak Hill Cemetery sits by itself on a rectangular plot of land just outside and in this case just south of the Corning town limits. It was not as impressive as some, but it had obviously been around for a while. Certainly long enough to have an ample grove of trees and green grass and to be nicely presented. Ed Northup’s grave was in a family plot at the top end of a slowly rising slope. This portion of Iowa is not altogether flat, which meant that it was possible to look around and see some scenery as we waited for people to arrive. One thing that can be said for small town America is that though they may not always have magnificent cemeteries, their people have big hearts as that little cemetery made room for the second largest turnout on the trip with just over 30 people in attendance. Ed’s service was one where I was not able to spend the night in the immediate vicinity the night before. It was about an hour and a half drive to Corning from Des Moines, and then an hour and a half back before I could head off for my next destination. It meant that it was the only time where I did not get to spend any time exploring the grounds a little bit. I would have liked to have done that. To read Ed Northup’s Memorial Article click here.

Fort Snelling National Cemetery, South Minneapolis, Minnesota: This was a big, beautiful cemetery with over 200,000 graves; and it was meticulously maintained. I drove around and took pictures from several different vantage points, with each picture containing row upon row of graves as far as I could see, and with no grave being repeated in any of the pictures. Perhaps it was because this was the first national cemetery on my trip, but I was quite moved being in the presence of so many veterans’ graves. I also felt a great sense of patriotic pride as I looked around at the wonderful effort, we as a country put into remembering our fallen heroes. Art Nabben also has no next of kin, but finding his grave was not very difficult for the six of us attending. The cemetery has great online information, so it was very easy to find his individual grave in Section P, even in the midst of thousands of other identical graves. Also, there will be no need to worry that his grave will not be presentable the next time someone looks for it just north of the center of the cemetery. To read Art Nabben’s Memorial Article click here.

Choteau Cemetery, Choteau, Montana: In a way, the Choteau Cemetery reminded me of the one in Corning, Iowa. The one difference would be that instead of being a small plot of land on the south side of town it was located to the east of town. That and the fact that it was a flat plot of land rather than slightly sloping. However, that did not mean that there was no scenery to be had. In Iowa you needed to be on a rise to see any scenery, but in Montana the scenery rose up all around you demanding to be looked at. I remember as I was approaching town from the south and seeing a butte rising up from the valley off to the left. As I passed by, I looked up and imagined that as a kid Tom Dellwo must have ventured off with some friends to climb that butte to see what they could see of the rest of the world from the top. As I was standing in the cemetery behind Tom’s grave leading the service I was facing south and made reference to the butte off in the distance and mentioned my imaginings. That little cemetery in Choteau was the furthest point north in my travels and the place of the largest gathering with just over 35 present. After that, it was time to head south towards Arizona. To read Tom Dellwo’s Memorial Article click here.

Holy Hope Cemetery, Tucson, Arizona: Normally when you think of cemeteries you think of green grass and maybe gentle slopes and curvy little lanes that weave their way through the gravestones. Don’t bother trying to think of such things in Tucson, Arizona. No one living there pretends that grass is normal, not in their back yards nor in their cemeteries. What they do imagine to be normal in July is temperatures over 100° as a matter of course. I was told by more than one person not to wear a coat and tie for the service, which I had planned to do at all of them. So, I didn’t. Instead, I wore a USMA golf shirt which I ordered by phone while driving across North Dakota and had shipped from West Point to Tucson. As it turned out all that special effort to stay reasonably cool beside Bill Pahissa’s grave was totally unnecessary. There among the semi-reddish sandy soil and under a fairly large but scraggly tree, and on an unseasonably mild day, I experienced the nicest weather of all the services on the whole trip. Standing there with 13 others also represented the further point west in my travels. To read Bill Pahissa’s Memorial Article click here.

Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery, San Antonio, Texas: Having just written about the nicest weather, I suppose at some point I need to mention the not so nicest weather. You might expect that at some point that would have involved a thunder storm, but that did not ever turn out to be the case. Rather, the weather that was the hardest for me to deal with was the scorching sun and heat. And I think that the epicenter of that occurred next to George Bass’ grave in San Antonio, Texas. I knew the day was going to be hot before I ever arrived at the cemetery; but as I arrived, I hoped that we might find shade under one of the many trees that were everywhere to be seen. Such was not to be the case. Section X was equaled in size only by Section W, and with well over 2,500 graves it actually offered great hope with a fair number of trees to be seen spread around the section. But alas, George’s grave was right in the middle of the largest open space in the section offering no hope of rescue from the sun which made its presence felt the moment the 15 of us stepped out of our cars. Perhaps that was to be expected of the southernmost point in my travels. To read George Bass’ Memorial Article click here.