I had lunch with an old friend recently and he shared a sacred moment he had during a time of deep personal struggle. I grabbed a napkin and quickly wrote his words down. He said, “I wept because I knew it wouldn’t last.” I was struck by the haunting truth of those words. Indeed, moments never last. Health and youthful beauty fade, over time. Even life doesn’t last. If my son’s journey through life and death has taught me anything, it’s that virtually everything ends, in the end. At the same time, I’ve discovered some things are forever.
This photo was taken during my Camelot years. Life was kind and my cup was running over in so many ways. Even still, I was a conscientious photo-taker because in my heart, I knew deep down nothing would last – that everything was changing. I realized early that photos would become my time machine. My journal. My compass.
On this day, young Mitch and Ethan were walking out of a movie theater giggling about the movie they just saw. I couldn’t help but capture this brotherly moment. I loved listening to their young minds at work. They were so funny, and they reminded me the world can still be innocent and kind. At this point in his life, Mitch had enough muscle strength to walk to the car, which was parked nearby, but he couldn’t go much further than that.
The way Mitch walked seemed almost ordinary to the layperson; but to those who knew DMD, his way of walking was unmistakable … a kind of flashing neon sign signaling the biological catastrophe that was slowly unfolding in his body.
When I look at this image, I can almost hear my boys giggling. I’m grateful for photos like this because I get to go back in time … to moments like this. I get to say to myself, “I’m grateful my children happened.”
About a month ago I had a heartfelt conversation with Ethan, who is almost 19 years old. He looks nothing like does in this photo; his boyish features have all but faded and given way to the likeness of a grown man. Over the last few years, Ethan has grown into a stalwart soul who is deep, insightful, talented, kind-hearted, and in search of meaning and purpose. I am so proud of him – not because of what appears on the outside, but for what lives inside.
As we sat on the couch, he began opening his heart to me. I could tell he wanted to talk. I sensed grief was just beneath the surface of his soft smile. I asked him, “What’s on your mind, son?” Then, his eyes welled, his voice cracked – and the flood gates opened. He told me how much he missed Mitch – even after all these years. I was reminded of the tender bond these brothers shared. They were the best of friends – and that is a space I hold sacred and with a reverent heart.
While part of Ethan ached to have some do-overs with Mitch– more importantly, he wanted his life and future to matter. Deep down, he wanted to honor his brother’s short life by the way he lived his. Ethan’s emotions were a mixture of looking back, being present, and thinking about his future. Just as it should be.
As I listened to Ethan’s searching heart, I was reminded that some things are forever. The love between siblings can be one of them. I am sure during Ethan’s final hours, many years from now, long after I’m gone ... when old age has taken its toll, he will look back on his life and still remember his brother with fondness.
That is one thing I admire about Ethan; he’s not bitter that his brother was taken from him – but instead, he’s grateful their lives were woven together – even if only for a short season. He's discovered life doesn't need to be perfect to be beautiful - and even in our sorrow, we can find deep joy.