Message From Our Chaplain

Solon American Legion Stinocher Post 460

Veteran-Owned and Serving You Since 1902

At Solon American Legion Stinocher Post 460, we know how much it means to serve. As a veteran-owned organization, we are committed to meeting the needs of those in our community. We’ve been open since 1902, and that means we’ve spent over 120 years helping people right here in Solon, IA.

As part of our mission, we are open to the public for meals, special events, and more. To learn more about Solon American Legion Stinocher Post 460 and what we’re all about, read this recent letter from our chaplain from December 2024.

A Message From Chaplain Doug Thompson

As I have gotten older, I've started to reflect upon my life. As I flipped through the pages of my life, I realized that I had many experiences, both good and bad. I ponder just what did I learn from those experiences.

My first funeral was Bonnie Green's; she died around the age of 13 from cancer. Bonnie was about two or three years older than me. As I stood in line, I could hear the adults say things like, “She looks like she's sleeping.” “She's so pretty.” “She looks peaceful.” “She looks like an angel.” When I got to her casket, I gazed upon her small, frail body, and she looked sickly, not at all like an angel. The freckles that once raced across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose now peeked out beneath the heavy makeup that covered her face. She didn't look like herself, and her hands looked almost translucent. When I got to her parents, Mr. Green's eyes were swollen and red from crying. It was the first time I ever saw a man cry, and it made me feel uncomfortable. I managed to stammer, “I'm sorry.” 

Around age 9, I experienced my first cigar, which didn't sit too well with me. Everything was spinning, and I felt hot like I had a high fever. Then I found myself on my hands and knees throwing up. Thankfully, I wasn't alone; Skip, Mike, and Steve all looked as green as I felt and they too were on all fours regurgitating our campfire supper. 

Shortly after I had turned 20, I was given the task of helping to recover a body that had been submerged beneath ice for about four months. The nausea that swept over me hit me like that first cigar. This time I stayed upright and completed the grizzly chore. After we took the body to the morgue, the pathologist told me to remove the young sailor's body from his uniform. Then he handed me some vapor rub for my top lip, surgical gloves, and a pair of heavy-duty curved scissors. Cutting through the water-soaked wool uniform was anything but easy.

Less than three weeks later, I experienced my first Special Watch. My assignment was to be the sole caregiver for a young man (a teenager, actually) who was dying from his wounds. My orders were clear: provide all medical care, which also included emotional and spiritual support if needed. 

I provided all nursing care as I would for anyone. I injected morphine and antibiotics through the needle port on his IV tubing, measured and emptied the urinary bag as needed, changed his body position to prevent skin breakdown, and took his vital signs every hour, which were recorded in his chart as well as in any other nursing reports. Unless I was performing a nursing task, I sat beside his bed, where I quietly prayed that this young man's suffering would end, and that God would take him quickly and grant him eternal peace. 

Somewhere before the predawn hours, I heard his last raspy breath. I waited for a moment, then I placed my stethoscope on his chest to listen for breath and heart sounds. At that very moment, a jagged bolt of lightning ripped open the night sky with a blinding flash. Less than a second later, a loud crack of thunder rattled the window. Then angry rain pounded against the windowpane like waves crashing against a rocky shoreline. The storm was so loud it made it impossible to discern if there was any heartbeat or breath sounds using my stethoscope. I felt for a pulse. Finding none, I noted the time and wrote it down in his chart. I called the medical doctor requesting his confirmation of death. I secured the IV drip and waited for the doctor. As I sat there alone making a mental checklist of all the things that were required of me after I got the doctor's confirmation of death, a pleasant memory that I had not thought of in years just came into focus.

It was six years earlier when I experienced my first kiss from Antoinette (Toni). I closed my eyes, trying to hold on to the sweet memory of that kiss, and I could almost hear Toni once again saying, “Well, aren't you going to kiss me back?” I'm not sure why I thought of Toni at that particular moment. Maybe because the memory was pure and filled with the innocence of youth. Maybe it was my subconscious attempting to block out that I had just witnessed for the first time someone dying.

What I do know is all of these events provided me with the emotional firsts of sympathy, compassion, empathy, hope, and love. Experiencing these emotions jolted me from adolescence into adulthood. Understanding these emotions has helped me to navigate through life.

It is my sincere hope that the many experiences that each of you have had helped to prepare you to navigate through life as well. 

Doug Thompson, Chaplain dotandjot@aol.com