I was early for the Purple Heart ceremony. It would honor five soldiers who had been wounded in action in Iraq while dragging their comrades to safety. I went to the hospital chaplain's office to wait. I was grateful for the extra minutes; my almost-finished poem was demanding completion.

"What's another word for 'choose'?" I asked the two soldiers who were working there.

"What do ya' mean?" they asked.

"Choose, as in chosen for something special," I said.

"Pick. Decide. Select," they suggested.

"Select." That was it. My poem was finished.

"Whatcha got there?" Sergeant Norris asked.

"A poem I wrote," I said, "Want to hear it? It's okay if you don't like poetry, I don't either," I added. When the two soldiers agreed, I read them my new poem, "Night Duty."

"Kinda Edgar Allan Poe there, ma'am," Sergeant Norris said.

"Is that personal?" Private White asked tentatively. "Is it based on your own experience? Do you really have nightmares?"

"I have nightmares so bad that sometimes I don't want to go to bed," I answered emphatically. "How about you? Can you sleep?"

"When I do, I wish I hadn't," he said succinctly.

With that, a connection was formed. So many differences separated us. He was male, of course; I am female. He was 20-something; I am 40-something. He had a high school diploma; I have three graduate degrees. All these, however, were inconsequential, because we shared something more important—we are combat veterans.

Combat veterans recognize each other immediately by their uniform patches. The patch on our left shoulders displays the unit to which we are currently assigned. Our right shoulder patch indicates the unit we served with while in combat. Less visible is the impact of that deployment on the soldier. Some return with physical wounds; some return with mental, emotional or spiritual wounds; and some return seemingly unaffected.

I was all too familiar with these wounds myself. It had taken me six months to recover from my first deployment to Operation Iraqi Freedom in 2003. Part of my healing process had been creative writing. Out of this, I had published an essay, "Lessons from Iraq."

Now five months since my return from a second Iraq deployment, I was experiencing an overwhelming array of physical, mental, emotional and spiritual maladies that blindsided me. The most distressing physical problem was chronic exhaustion. I had expected this second time to be easier.

Much like the time following my 2003 service, my evenings consisted of DVDs and microwaved dinners. Eventually I would fall asleep, only to awaken hours later with intrusive memories from both deployments. Mentally, I had problems with concentration and memory; I was depressed emotionally. Nothing seemed important; the future appeared bleak. I was empty spiritually. Life seemed meaningless.

My prayers were angry laments: "My God, how unfair! Haven't I served you? I responded to your call. I've been to war twice. I have taken care of your flock. And this is what I get? Take away this pain," I begged. "Heal me so I can help my soldiers again," I bargained.

My friends wanted to hear about Iraq: "Have you been doing any writing?" they asked eagerly.

"You don't understand," I sighed. My daily responsibilities sapped my meager strength. It was all I could do to summon the energy to crawl out of my deep, dank well of despair every morning and go to work, pretending all was well.

"We'd like to see some writing," my friends encouraged me.

So one sleepless night, I wrote an essay describing an experience from my first deployment. Another night of insomnia produced the poem "Night Duty," describing my current struggles.

Writing these accounts was exhausting, but I soon discovered a benefit. With each written creation, a hole was punched in the gray, wet, wool blanket of fatigue and depression that smothered me, and a glimpse of light and hope broke through.

Then one night, I had a dream. In my dream, I asked for an explanation: "Lord, why this pain?"

The reassuring answer transformed my perspective, "I have more to teach you."

I realized that if there were any meaning to be found, I would find it in the memories that woke me every night. "I will not let these experiences slip by unrecorded," I vowed.

The following morning, five wounded heroes were honored with the Purple Heart Medal. Afterward, three soldiers retreated to the chaplain's office. As the soldiers acknowledged their nightmares, their power was defused. And as they shared their burdens, their weight became lighter.

Listening to my soldiers discuss their fears, I realized that God was using me. Using me not in spite of my pain, but because of it. I started to jot down notes for an essay; it was going to be another long night.

Visit the American Baptist Chaplaincy and Pastoral Counseling Web pages at http://www.nationalministries.org/caring_ministries/chaplaincy/