Goodbye Jeremiah.

I was sitting at my desk this morning writing a French paper, worrying about the deadline that I would clearly miss and feeling badly about sleeping later than I should have. And there were other, more pressing concerns on my mind, namely, a recent mistake I made that caused pain to someone else and to myself. I won't go into details. My phone rang and I got up to answer it, sure that it was my dad calling for the first of what would inevitably amount to five or more phone calls throughout the day. He likes to check in more and more the older he gets.

But it wasn't my dad, it was an old Army buddy named John Williams, one of the guys I've been working with on a documentary project about National Guard veterans of the Iraq War. His voice, normally strong and clear, was faint. "Hey, sorry I've been out of touch for awhile," he said. "No problem,” I replied, “what's up?"

"Did you hear yet?"

"No, hear what?"

"It's McNeal. KIA."

A few minutes after I hung up with John Williams, another Army buddy called. It was Sean Crippen, a 3rd Yr. sports management student at Virginia State who I've also been working with. Crip's tears were audible over the phone. His voice faltering, he mumbled, "I can't keep going to these funerals man." I told him I'd be there too. There's small comfort in knowing that we can rely on each other for support when our war comes home to haunt us.

Sgt. McNeal was my friend and fellow soldier for three years. We lived on the same base during my year in Iraq and continued to serve in West Point, VA for two years after our return. He was a gentle human being, not Gung Ho in any way, but extremely dependable. Just before we deployed for the first tour, in February 2004, McNeal married his girlfriend. We were all sure it would fall apart, as do so many marriages rushed into before a pending deployment. But his marriage lasted, one of the few that remained strong. His wife recently gave birth to their second child. I don't know if McNeal ever met the child. I am sure, however, that neither child will remember their father, a man I respected immensely and had a great deal of faith in as a young leader.

As for me, I'll always remember McNeal because of his ready smile and because he laughed at all of my jokes.

McNeal deployed for a second tour with my former unit -- the 237 Sapper Company -- in October, 2007. He joined the Guard for college tuition assistance but ended up working full time to support his family. His death brings the number of Iraq dead that I've known personally to five.

With each death I retreat several steps from healing. If I've learned anything from my own veteran experience, from working with fellow veterans, and from reading as many veterans' novels and memoirs as I can get my hands on, it's that soldiers leave a part of themselves -- perhaps their youths, certainly their innocence, often their hope -- in whatever far away place they call "in country." Indeed, many soldiers never make peace with their war experiences. The war becomes for many a perpetual reference point for anger, sadness, failure, and alienation.

I am not there yet. Crip and Williams aren't quite there either. But we are keenly aware of how close we are, and every time one of our friends dies we fear what will come. We wait anxiously for the bitterness, the resentment, and the frustration to well up inside of us. We wonder how it will affect our lives, our careers, and our relationships. We wonder if we will ever be able to say goodbye, or if we should.

There's only one thing I don't wonder about. I never wonder whether or not men like McNeal would leap at the opportunity to take another crack at life. I never wonder whether or not they, having lost everything, would return from the grave with a commitment to take nothing for granted.

And so I try to turn the pain into something positive in the only way I know how, and that's to remember -- every time I doubt myself or feel like giving up -- how lucky I am to have the opportunity to try my hardest at this life. When I think of the friends I have lost, I take stock of all of the decisions I have made, of where I am headed, and I try to remember that I still have the opportunity to right wrongs, to do the right thing from here on out. Those are profound opportunities that five of my friends will never have again. To choose to live more fully, more compassionately, and more justly is the luxury of the living. It is your luxury and mine, and it is a grave responsibility, one that we must cherish and respect while we have the time.

So go out and say you’re sorry to someone you’ve hurt. Do something nice for someone, anything at all. And above all, be thankful you’re alive.