God and Country
Two Janesville boys devoted their lives to service—one with a gun, the other with a chalice.
By Shawn Fury
Photo by Saverio Truglia
(page 3 of 3)
“It strengthened my faith,” Matt says. “When something that painful happens, you run from it or you deal with it. And you either deal with it on your own or you deal with it with God. You face that pain, but God is like a healing surgeon.”
In other words, what’s the point of faith, if you’re only going to have it when life is good?
Some people can pinpoint the exact time and place where their life took a turn. Matt Fasnacht is one of them. April 2, 2000, at the Basilica of Saint Mary in Minneapolis.
He was 25 years old, living and working in Minneapolis, already on a new course. Partying, living for the weekend, had lost its appeal. He wanted to find a woman he could settle down with, a woman who shared his values. Church seemed the perfect place to meet a woman like that. He had stumbled across the Rock, a worship community that caters to the needs of singles, college students, and young couples. He’d attended a few times and found himself developing a greater interest in religious faith. But it was Catholicism, the church of his youth, that ultimately beckoned him. And so Matt found himself at the Basilica one Sunday morning.
He settled into the second pew. Fasnachts always sit in front. As the priest said the Mass—the same words Matt had heard hundreds, thousands of times in his life—Matt started crying. First a few tears, then a torrent. He wept like a child dropped off on the first day of school. The tears poured down his face for five minutes. “[Imagine] Christ himself comes walking through your door…and says, ‘I want to reveal myself to you,’” Matt explains. “You’d be bawling.” He felt physically altered, as if he were receiving body blows from a heavyweight boxer. He shielded his face from other parishioners.
“Are you okay?” a friend asked.
“I’m fine.”
What he didn’t tell his friend was that after years of searching for answers about his faith, he had found what he was looking for. “I wanted proof that Jesus was God, and I got it,” he says. There was no vision, no booming voice. Just inner peace.
Feeling a need to tell someone what had taken place, Matt went to the priest. Matt stood in line with the other parishioners, finally getting his chance to approach.
“I had an experience where God came to me at Mass,” Matt began, “and He wanted me to tell you.”
The priest shook Matt’s hand, all the while giving him one of those “Okay, great, thanks for the nice words” looks.
Matt talked about the experience with his parents, his grandparents, ex-girlfriends, and even priests, but he didn’t abandon the ways of the world immediately. Finally, in September 2001, he yielded. He quit his job and entered seminary in Winona, finally convinced he had discovered what he was meant to do.
What if he had become a father? If he and Tresa had had kids—a bunch of little Mikes running around, just as smart, funny, and tough as their old man? What if he had had reached 30, or 40, or 50?
What if he had been able to attend his brother’s ordination?
That’s what can drive you insane about an untimely death. Not just the heartbreak of a life lost at 25, but all the what-ifs.
Mike died while on patrol. It had been a long day, and when the bomb went off, the platoon was already within view of its base.
He had deployed to Iraq in early 2005. Shortly before shipping out, Mike and Tresa returned to Minnesota from his base in Fort Benning, Georgia. While he was home, he paid a visit to Coach Niemczyk, told him he was trained and ready for whatever he might face.
It seemed the action got hotter the longer Mike was in Iraq. There were numerous close calls. One e-mail to Farley read, “Unfortunately we were in an IED [improvised explosive device] ambush.” Mike didn’t explain the incident much beyond those words, didn’t have to. The reality was obvious.
Mike was less than a month away from a two-week leave when he was killed. He had planned to return to Minnesota in July to attend his sister Julie’s wedding. All of the Fasnachts would have been together again. He had written about how much he was looking forward to seeing the family in an e-mail that Marny opened on June 8. Mike included a picture of himself with that letter: in full gear, weapon at the ready, focused, even solemn.
“I’ve never seen this look on his face,” Marny thought. “So deadly serious.”
Less than 12 hours later, officers from Fort Snelling arrived with the crushing news.
The community rallies, of course. The flags fly at half-staff and everyone salutes the fallen hero. The TV stations air their tributes and the newspapers write theirs. But as the days and weeks go by, they move on to other matters, while loved ones are left with photos, letters, and those memories playing in their heads.
The wake was held at St. Ann’s in Janesville, eight days after Mike’s death. More than a thousand people attended. The cars stretched for blocks. Friends came. Strangers came. Governor Pawlenty paid his respects. The funeral followed the next day, and Matt and his family watched as Mike’s body was laid to rest at the Catholic cemetery.
Matt stayed home for three weeks or so, reluctant to leave the house that once echoed with the clamor of seven kids. When the family gathers now, the conversation often turns to memories of Mike. They remember his jokes. They recall his skills with a guitar, which he taught himself to play. Some members of the family talk easily, others keep their feelings inside. They talk about Mike being in heaven, watching them, still a part of the family.
But even with the comfort that provides, Matt admits, there’s still a void. There are times when the sadness hits again and again. The merest memory can trigger deep pain. But one realization makes it easier for Matt, lightens the load a bit: knowing that Mike followed his calling, and knowing that he is following his. “Only when you sacrifice,” Matt says, “when you give yourself to others or to God, only then do you really start to live.”
Shawn Fury, formerly of Janesville, is a freelance writer based in New York.
