The other day Mitch was feeling okay so we sat as a family at out our kitchen table to have dinner for the first time in a month. For years our family dinners have been a family routine, and perhaps a somewhat underappreciated ritual at times. But this day was different; we had our boy back with us. It was such a sweet time. Little Mitch sat by his dad, as he does every night. The kids were joking and talking about their day at school and Natalie had fun interacting with everyone. I sat at the table in silence … in awe of these sweet people whom I had grown to love so very much. I held back my tears of gratitude, recognizing that I was so fortunate to have a family. 

Above our table rests a small sign (left in photo) that says “there’s more to breaking bread than sharing a meal.” This night, that truism settled on me with great force. It isn’t the nature and quality of the food or table settings that makes dinner time special … it is the reunion and conversation that makes it such an valuable experience.

Before today, my kitchen table was just a table. At this moment I realize I will never look upon our table with the same eyes. All too soon our son will no longer be with us and an empty chair will always be there as a reminder of this wonderful young man who has touched our family so deeply. My kitchen table …. no longer an inanimate object – but a monument … a symbol of the family I love so much.

Down the darkened hall to Mitchell’s bedroom lies our little boy in his bed with the soft glow of his TV filling the room with its dull light. Mitch wants the TV on to take his mind off things and help him sleep. Sitting beside him is his mother faithfully administering his medicines every 2 hours. Exhausted beyond words ... she weeps for him. She is the unsung hero with battle wounds the human eye cannot see. I have come to love and respect my wife in ways I never imagined. I have seen a side to her I never knew existed and even in my deep sorrow, I fall in love all over again. 

My sister came over today and brought us two seat cushions and a box of Kleenex and set them on the floor in the hall just outside his bedroom. She, having read one of our posts, thought to make our moments of grief a little easier. We used them this evening.

There exists an unusual peace in our hearts right now. The last 72 hours have been nothing short of providential and answers to deep prayers. We have all those that have prayed for us to thank. Your collective faith and the works of prayer have unlocked blessings that would have not come otherwise. Thank you. We will share some of these experiences when the time is right. But, for the moment, with this peace we feel is a recognition that the time is near. Very near. 

As I place my hand on my son’s chest, I can feel his heart beating so very fast. I pray that he has peace of mind and body ... and we the gift of another day. The trouble is we will always want one more day and I have come to realize that I don't think we'll ever be truly ready to say goodbye. Death will come like an unfair thief and take our little boy away.

There is a part of me that is dying each day with my son. And like death is a separation of the body and the spirit … there is a separation of the old me ... and it is being replaced with a new one. Each day I see the world with new eyes. Each day emerges a new heart that will never feel the same as before and a mind that will never think the same. 

While this has been a journey of tremendous hardship and sorrow, it has also been a journey of profound tender mercies from a loving Father in Heaven who has and continues to help us through this difficult time. There is more love and happiness than there is pain. We are grateful.