Burdens and Blessings

I had a phone conversation with Matt recently. He was in my son’s squad in the Mountain Phase of Ranger school. He shared with me his story about that fateful day on Mt. Yonah when my son, George L Taber V (Quint), and Evan Fitzgibbon lost their lives.

Their squad was one of the first to do “Lead climbing,” where you take turns climbing an open rock face while being belayed by your teammates below. Once they completed their ascents, they had some precious and rare “free time” while the other platoons continued their climbs. They sat in an enclosed rock nook with a beautiful view of the valley below. They were secluded enough to be free from the roving eyes of the RIs (Ranger Instructors), who were busy supervising the other climbers. Once they realized they were being left alone, they huddled in small groups, discussing life before Ranger school and their plans after graduation. Several took the time to heat their MREs and enjoy a hot lunch, a rare delicacy in the fast-paced tempo of Ranger school. Some grabbed quick naps while the rest of the team were on the alert for RIs.

George was telling stories about his experiences as a Halibut charter boat deckhand in the waters of Alaska. Or he was laughing as he practiced his Spanish with Joel, a native speaker, mainly talking about their favorite Mexican dishes and restaurant spots they wanted to try together. During a similar moment of peace on another part of the mountain, Evan marveled at the beauty surrounding them. He shared with Will about how he would like to bring his fiancé Anna up to Dahlonega when the misery of Ranger School was over. He dreamed they would book an Air BnB, climb Mt. Yonah together in peace, and visit local wineries and attractions. They all enjoyed a relaxed and carefree hour by Ranger School standards.

As the soldiers savored their brief respite, they noticed the distant storm clouds gathering, their ominous presence growing with each passing minute. The RIs consulted their weather apps and exchanged hushed conversations. Finally, the decision was made to evacuate the mountaintop and retreat to the assembly area, a wooded hollow just off the topographical peak of Mt. Yonah, where Company and staff tents were set up, and climbing and personal gear were staged for the day’s training and overnight stay.

The storm, relentless in its fury, unleashed its wrath as the Rangers began their descent to the assembly area. The rain, driven by gusty winds, blew sideways torrents, transforming the mountain’s water trickles into raging streams. The Rangers, burdened with their climbing gear, fought to maintain their balance on the treacherous terrain and pelting rain. Matt and George, switching off carrying a five-gallon water can, carefully crossed one such stream. George crossed first, then Matt passed the water jug so he could make his crossing unencumbered.

As George received the jug, he looked at Matt with an incredulous grin and said, “Why have we been carrying this thing full this whole way?” He lightened their load by pouring its contents into the already raging stream they had just crossed. After fording the stream, the two Rangers were separated in stormy chaos and confusion. Matt reflected that those were the last words he heard George say before he died.

                “Why have we been carrying this thing full this whole way?”

I’ve been thinking about those words a lot over the last month. I’ve often wondered what my son would say to me if he could return after experiencing the wonder, awe, love, and inexpressible peace that heaven must be. These words from Matthew 11:28 keep repeating in my mind, so maybe they are from him.

“Come unto me who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

Most of the time, we carry our water cans full of water when it is not necessary. But how can we know otherwise? We are human. We know no other way.

God tells us there is another way- to walk by faith, not by sight.

When we come to the end of our lives, consciousness, or earthly being, we will instantly see that we carry many unnecessary burdens.

God has got this. He has us safely in his hands, even when we feel down to our last breath. He still has us and will not leave us.

Our water can is heavy, weighing us down. God is gently nudging us to pour it all out at his feet. That simple act of faith is like a sweet sacrifice in his eyes.

I know. I know—easier said than done. Believe me. I hear you.

This is not a one-and-done gesture. It must be repeated dozens of times daily and hundreds of times weekly.

Fear, anxiety, and uncertainty are issues that I have had a lifetime struggle with. And I don’t think I am alone in this.

Pour out your water can today. Watch it spill down the rocky slopes, join with the stream in the valley, and make its way to the ocean depths.

Pour out your burdens to him today. And every day.

YET…

Another Matt, on that same mountain on that same day, was a good Ranger Buddy of George’s. When the weather call was made to evacuate the rock face and make their way to the base camp, George inadvertently left one of his canteens behind. Matt picked it up, planning to return it to George later, saving him from a negative spot report for unaccounted-for gear.

The storm came, the tree fell, and two brothers were lost—chaos, tears, grief, and confusion ensued.

When Matt finally returned to Camp Merrill, he was distraught and tried to return the canteen to George’s gear.

But George’s locker, gear, and personal belongings were locked, secured, taped off, and awaiting final inventory.

So, Matt kept the canteen, a small remembrance of George.

He thought maybe one day he would return it to George’s family.

Through yet another Mountain recycle, through Florida phase when every ounce counts, he carried that canteen in his pack, never emptying the water.

It reminded him to keep going, to persevere, to stay strong.

To finish the task at hand.

To carry the load.

Just as George and Evan would want.

Months later, true to his word, he returned that canteen, still full of water, to our family.

It now sits prominently among George’s pictures, plaques, Berets, Dog tags, flags, coins, letters, and memories.

It is a poignant reminder of the sacrifice of a fellow soldier, a son, a friend, and a Ranger buddy.

This begs the question: When do you pour out the water of burden, and when do you keep the water of remembrance, and how do you know the difference?

Listen to your heart and that still small voice quietly nudging you.

And you will know.

______________________________________

This first appeared in The Havok Journal on September 5, 2024.

Tab Taber is a Gold-Star Dad–father of SSG George L. Taber V, a Green Beret Medical Sergeant from 7th SFG who died during a violent storm on Mt. Yonah while in the Mountain phase of Ranger School in August 2022. Tab journals to process his grief and to recollect memories of his son. Occasionally he shares his written thoughts with The Havok Journal and on Instagram @gltiv. He retired from the Military (8 years Marines;15 years Army) in 2014 and now resides in NE Florida where he runs a 4th generation wholesale plant nursery. He can be reached at tabtaber7@gmail.com.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.