[Congressional Record Volume 150, Number 133 (Thursday, November 18, 2004)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Pages E2023-E2024]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




            HONORING THE LIFE OF 1ST LT. MATTHEW LYNCH, USMC

                                 ______
                                 

                           HON. STEVE ISRAEL

                              of new york

                    in the house of representatives

                      Wednesday, November 17, 2004

  Mr. ISRAEL. Mr. Speaker, there are times in our lives when we fully 
realize the presence of heros among us. And there are times when we 
fully realize that we have lost one of those heros; that is the case 
with Marine 1st Lt. Matthew Lynch, a young man who gave his life for 
his country in Iraq. It is difficult to memorialize a man who stood as 
tall in life as Matthew did and harder yet to memorialize a man who 
stands even taller in death. I believe the words of his father, Bill 
Lynch, spoken at Matt's funeral speak best to this fallen hero and not 
only capture the magnitude of the great life Matt lived but the 
magnitude of the loss to our nation:

       ``To all Matt's friends, and you are many; I thank you for 
     coming. Saying farewell to our beloved Matthew is the hardest 
     thing I have ever done. At this time, my thoughts alternately 
     fly through my mind like sharp arrows; or slip through my 
     mental fingers like quicksilver; and I cannot hold them fast. 
     Because of this; and because I have only this one time to pay 
     tribute to Matt, and to tell you about his life, I must affix 
     my thoughts to paper, and read them; and for this, I beg your 
     indulgence.
       But for now, I borrow from Shakespeare, and tell you that . 
     . . We gather today to praise Matt, not to bury him. And that 
     is because all the things Matt was; Love of family and 
     friends; gentleness, strength, humor, grace, dedication, 
     honor, loyalty, patriotism, humility, and yes, of course, 
     courage . . . can never be buried, because they are eternal, 
     as is now, our beloved Matt.
       While we mourn Matt's loss it brings with it an opportunity 
     for us all, in private moments, to reflect on what he was, 
     and perhaps to develop in ourselves, those attributes he had, 
     which we lack; so that the warm light of remembrance which 
     fills this church today, may one day shine on us.
       I will speak to you today of Matt's life, and of ironies 
     gentle, and tragic, which at present you know nothing of, and 
     I will tell you of a curious sign I've lately seen which 
     reassures me.
       But for now, to understand Matt's life, you are in the 
     right place; because this is where all that he was, began, on 
     a Summer day in 1979, when my wife Angela and I brought our 
     little Matthew Devin Lynch to that very baptismal font, to be 
     baptized. The Gospel that day, I remember vividly, was the 
     Gospel according to Saint Matthew, and I thought that a very 
     propitious beginning. The name Matthew, we knew, came from 
     Hebrew, and meant ``Gift of God.''
       And what a gift he was! Cherubic, loving, obedient, and oh 
     yes, very active. As he developed, it was evident that he had 
     extraordinary athletic skills. One day when he was about 3 
     years old, and bounding about with his brother Tim and their 
     friends, a visitor to our neighbor's patio said to me ``Is 
     that your son?'' ``Yes,'' I replied. ``Do you realize that he 
     is a natural athlete?'' the man said. ``How do you know,'' I 
     asked? ``I am a pediatrician,'' he said, ``I see thousands of 
     kids, and believe me, he is a natural athlete.'' It was a 
     prophecy, which would be fulfilled.
       I raised both our sons as athletes, and spent countless 
     hours drilling various skills into them. I always did it with 
     some zany game I had devised . . . Kids learn best when they 
     are having fun. In most of those games, I was the villain, 
     the opponent, the one to be conquered, but I always did it 
     with humor, and they came to love ``the games.''
       When they were only 5 or 6 years old, we used to play a 
     game I had devised to build their swimming speed, I called it 
     ``Shark and Minnows.'' In our community pool, I would emplace 
     Matt and Tim near a ladder at one end of the pool. Their 
     mission was to swim to a ladder directly opposite them, and 
     get out of the pool before the shark could catch them. I 
     stood waist deep in the water, at the far end . . . the 
     feared and fearsome Shark.
       At first I was a very successful shark, but very shortly, 
     the minnows got much quicker, and the shark caught nothing 
     but air. Soon the Minnows ``can't catch me'' glee, told me 
     that my days as a big fish were over, and that Matt's were 
     just beginning. A few years later, as Matt swam by me, I 
     raised my head, to see if someone was pulling him on a rope.
       At that time, Tim, had his eyes on two Jericho High School 
     swim records, and he decided to join the Long Island Aquatic 
     Club, to begin his assault on those records, which he did in 
     fact, later claim. But in the beginning Matt just tagged 
     along. After their first three hour LIAC workout, I asked 
     Matt ``How did it go?'' ``I . . . NEVER . . . want . . . to . 
     . . do that . . . again,'' said Matt. But like everything 
     Matt did, he went back, and excelled . . . a theme you will 
     come to recognize.
       Soon, he became one of the elite LIAC swimmers. He also 
     swam right across his high school's record board, eclipsing 
     every individual record, even Tim's, leaving his own name in 
     his wake. He set the country record in the 200-yard 
     individual medley, finished third in New York State in that 
     event and the 100-yard freestyle. He was All County swimmer 
     three years in a row; a County champion in two events each 
     of his last two years.
       Baseball was the same. All-County catcher his last two 
     years in high school, nominated for the ``Diamond Award,'' as 
     one of the best players in Nassau County; and as a senior, he 
     tied for the home run record, all of this easily fulfilling 
     the prophecy that stranger had made so many years ago.
       He continued this at Duke University. He was the swim 
     team's ``Rookie of the Year,'' and became a mainstay of that 
     team. He was also a catcher on the Duke baseball team for two 
     years, but in his Senior year, carrying out the theme which 
     defines his life, he told his swim coach he wanted to return 
     to his swim team ``family,'' his buddies, and he did. As a 
     Senior, and in his very last race, when his team needed him 
     to step up, we saw him swim one of his best 100-yard 
     freestyle times, then sadly walk off, his career over. 
     Between high school and college, he loved his job as a Jones 
     Beach lifeguard; competed on their competition team, and 
     there too, he excelled, and developed many friends.
       ``What next?'' I asked him shortly after he graduated from 
     Duke. ``Dad, the Marine Corps, or course.'' ``Are you doing 
     this because Tim and I did it, or because YOU want to do 
     it?'' I asked. ``Dad, I want to do it,'' he replied.
       The next few years were difficult for Angela and I. Our 
     Marine sons began to go in harm's way. First, Tim in 
     Afghanistan; then Tim and Matt in Iraq. But they always 
     returned. Last Easter, Matt phoned us to say he was ordered 
     to Iraq a 2nd time, as a replacement for some Lieutenants in 
     another unit who had been wounded. But after 3 months, he 
     again returned, and we were overjoyed. But shortly, he said, 
     ``Mom, Dad, you will think I'm crazy, but my old unit, my 
     buddies are going back to Iraq, and I really want to join 
     them.'' Again, that theme of loyalty, family.

[[Page E2024]]

       All during our son's deployments, I had been haunted by a 
     specter of Marines in Dress Blue uniforms, walking to our 
     door, bearing terrible news . . . and that specter was rooted 
     in my past.
       You see, in 1966, I too was a lst Lieutenant, then serving 
     a short tour at The Marine Corps District Headquarters in 
     Garden City. One of my duties was casualty calls. That meant 
     when a Marine was wounded or killed, I had to personally 
     notify his next of kin. ``I'll only be here 3 months,'' I 
     thought, ``I should be O.K.''
       The next week, my Colonel grimly dropped a Teletype on my 
     desk. ``KIA,'' it started. ``Lt., will you handle this?'' he 
     said. My stomach rolled. My duty that day was to break a 
     mother's heart. I gathered two NCOs, got a priest, and drove 
     to the Marine's home. His mother was getting out of her car . 
     . . she had just returned from the beach . . . she looked at 
     us . . . and dropped like a stone. We took her inside, 
     neighbors came, someone called her husband, ``Come home right 
     now, was all he was told.''
       When he arrived he told me that he had immediately punched 
     the wall at work, and would have punched me, had he been at 
     home. ``I just would not have wanted to hear what I knew you 
     were going to say,'' he said.
       I told my Colonel we had a dangerous situation, and that 
     someone would eventually get hurt. We had no standing 
     operating procedure for these casualty calls . . . no S.O.P. 
     ``Write one, Lieutenant,'' he said, and I did. I specified 
     NCOs for wounds . . . but always an NCO and an officer for a 
     death. I put my heart and soul into it, trying to devise 
     something, which would give aid and comfort to the bereaved, 
     and protection to our Marines. Years later, I encountered 
     marines from that same office. and we discussed casualty 
     calls by then quite numerous. ``It's no fun,'' they said, 
     ``but at least we have a really good S.O.P.'' ``I know,'' I 
     said, ``I wrote it.''
       On August 31, Matt returned with his buddies for a third 
     tour, and, on October 31, he was killed by a roadside bomb. 
     That same day, my wife Angela and I, still unaware, drove to 
     the beach, to walk the boardwalk. It was a gorgeous day, and 
     we spoke of how fortunate we were to have such fine sons, and 
     how proud we were of our two Marines. We passed the beach 
     where Matt worked, and again spoke of him, and then we 
     returned home. I parked the car, we entered our house . . . 
     just as that mother had done almost 40 years ago . . . the 
     day I broke her heart. The door was ajar, and as I heard 
     Angela exclaim, ``Oh No!'' . . . I turned to see two Marines 
     in dress blue uniforms, grimly walking towards us. One an 
     NCO, the other an officer. Each wore the same stony mask I 
     had worn years ago, and in an instant I knew our Matt was 
     gone . . . you see, I'd written that S.O.P.
       How ironic that the pain I'd delivered so long ago to 
     someone else; was now visited on my doorstep; and stranger 
     still, that the procedure I'd then written to console others, 
     was now applied to us. The next day, Angela and I took our 
     shattered hearts to this church. It was All Souls Day, and 
     the Gospel that day . . . was according to St. Matthew. 
     ``Wire to wire,'' I thought, ``Saint Matthew.''
       Matt, our beloved gift of God died trying to free a people 
     from a vicious enemy, whose unspeakable acts of barbarism, 
     even against their own people, while done in the name of God, 
     reveal them to be Godless; and such evil must be opposed. We 
     revere Matt's service, and while we are saddened, we are not 
     angry. Not at our government, not at our President, and 
     certainly not at the United States Marine Corps, that fine 
     fighting force our Matt was so proud to serve.
       The days ahead will be difficult for us. When the last of 
     you have gone, and our door has closed, our ordeal will 
     begin. A bright light has left our home, never to return, and 
     all the sand in Iraq cannot fill the hole in our hearts. But 
     recently, I've noted a sign, although in the strangest place, 
     which suggests reassurance. Now, you may think this forced, 
     contrived, or fabricated for this moment; perhaps the ranting 
     of one whose heart, buffeted too hard by this tragedy, is 
     trying too hard to see, but you are wrong, because I saw this 
     sign long before Matt's death.
       Some months ago, I looked down upon a floor tile in our 
     home, and saw clearly what could easily be an artist's 
     rendition of the face of Christ. It stared directly at me. 
     Curious. For weeks, I looked at that visage every day. What 
     to make of it? Eventually, my eyes began to scan around the 
     visage, and recently, I also clearly saw, sheltered in the 
     corner, and under the right shoulder of that visage . . . the 
     perceptible head and face of a very small child. Each had 
     slowly been revealed to me, and until lately I have not known 
     what to make of this; but clearly, the events of this last 
     week suggest to me that Matt, and formerly our little Gift of 
     God, has, as was his custom, made one final return to family 
     and is now, the visage assures me, sheltered, and safely 
     home, and this gives me great comfort.
       It is time to close, and I must do this in two ways:
       To the heavens I say:
       ``Lord this is our son Matthew, in whom we are well 
     pleased. He was your precious gift to us, and we return him 
     to you now. Please grant Matt a place of favor, where he may 
     rest comfortably until those of us who have loved him so can 
     join him.''
       And finally, to our son Matt, I say those words every 
     Marine longs to hear;
       ``Well done Marine . . . and Semper Fi!''

                          ____________________