Last night Natalie and I went on a wooded walk. We wandered through the crunchy leaves and just began to talk.
The air was crisp and fragrant, rich with earth's deep tones. If only we could have a bottle to keep and call our own.
So there we shared some gentle words about life and other things. Then our souls went where words do not exist, nor can they … not even in our dreams.
It’s strange to live in such a place, where peace and grief reside. The loneliness of longing forever at your side.
I saw my wife, two lives rolled into one. Arms filled with love and family, yet empty in search of our little son.
Yet something happened in the woods last night – something we didn’t quite see. We knew the season was changing, and suddenly we realized so were we.
Grief evolves. How could that be? I think I see it now, it isn't grief that changed, but me.
Yet there is still a deep, dark wood. A place that is felt, not seen. Where words of grief and anguish do not exist, not even in our dreams.
As a young boy I used to get lost in the back woods of Edina, Minnesota. The wilderness was thick with all manner of vegetation, rocks and hills – and because of the very nature of nature you couldn't see very far. And when fog settled, you could see almost nothing.
Being lost as a young child reminds me of the landscapes of my life. Sometimes I sit upon a vista with clear skies and can see far into the horizon. Other times I am scaling my Everest – afraid I might fall. Still, other times I am traveling through a wilderness of hardship where the fog of the unknown makes seeing what’s ahead almost impossible.
Regardless of the landscape upon which I journey, I have learned to travel by faith. That doesn't mean to travel blind or dumb, but to learn to see with my other eyes and hear with my other ears. There is a difference, and it is significant.
As Mitch started to slip away, I found myself descending into a dark wilderness wherein I could see very little. The further we traveled into this wilderness of grief and sorrow the more difficult the terrain and the thicker the fog. I would hold my son’s face and tell him how much he meant to me. I would kiss and hug him and try to assure him – but inside I was terrified of losing him. I love him so very much. With each minute, each day, the wilderness became ever dark and perplexing. I have never known a wilderness such as this.
My wife came into my office today with tears in her eyes and said, “I know it’s officially tomorrow night (the morning of March 2nd) that Mitch passed away, but the day was on a Friday last year. Today is Friday.” Tears filled my eyes, too. I realized then I am still navigating the wilderness of grief. And what a wilderness it is…
The other day I stumbled upon a journal entry I wrote when I was 19 years old. I had all but forgotten about the dream – but somehow I had the presence of mind to write it down over 20 years ago. In my dream I was travelling in a forest heading to some place important, but I couldn't put my finger on where. I also had a wife and children but I couldn't see their faces and I didn't know their numbers, yet I knew they belonged to me and me them. Each of them was carrying picture frames. As we made our journey through the thick forest, at some point I realized someone was missing and I began to desperately search for my child. I was in a panic, and then my dream ended.
As I read my journal entry I lost my breath. I am now beginning to understand the meaning of that dream so many years later - and I can’t help but contemplate what God was trying to tell me about my future. He spoke to me, and I listened … and I wrote it down… but I didn't understand it. If there is one thing I've learned in my own journey; it is one thing to receive a personal revelation (or answer, or warning) but quite another to understand it.
I have discovered that while navigating my wilderness I must learn to rely on my spiritual hearing, not just spiritual sight. And learning to hear is a delicate and personal thing – borne of personal acquaintance.
Suppose I told you outside there were 2,000 mothers – one of which was mine. And say I blindfold you and told you to find her. I could describe her to you; I might say she’s 5.5, blonde short hair, a beautiful smile and kind voice. If I sent you out there to find her ---- you couldn't do it. Yet if you were to blindfold me I could find her in minutes. Why? Because I know her voice. So it is with God.
I am still navigating the wilderness of grief - almost as if blindfolded. But I have ears to hear. And while I may stumble and fall to my bruised knees in sorrow, I will get up and follow that voice that whispers ever so gently. A voice that is so quiet that if I’m preoccupied, I may not hear it at all.
One day, at the end of my wilderness, when I have learned what I must, I know I will see my son again. Only this time I will hold Mitchell’s face not in sorrow but in deep relief … for I will have closed the loop on that dream I had so many years ago; I will have found my son who was lost from my sight. And I will thank my wilderness for teaching me to hear my Father’s voice … a voice that is leading me home. I hear Him.
As death circled about, Mitch began to sense the end was coming and started asking questions. Natalie and I did all we could to comfort our son and answer him honestly and compassionately while at the same time not frightening him.
One evening, while he was home on hospice, Mitch and I were in our little movie room in the basement making popcorn. Mitch sat in a chair next to me because he just wanted to hang out. At one point Mitch pointed to a carbonation machine standing on a counter-top that turns water into soda. Just before he was admitted into the hospital he tried a drink from that machine for the first time. He asked me, “Dad, is that what hurt my heart?” My heart fell to the floor as I slowly knelt down and looked him in the eyes and said, “No, son. I would never let you take anything that would hurt you. Your heart is broken because of Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. Your heart is a muscle, just like your arms and legs, and it is getting weak because of DMD.” A look of sadness came over his face as he tried to come to grips with some harsh realities. There was a little boy who just wanted to live and love, to raise a family of his own and to be a dad. None of that would happen for him.
I simply didn't know what hard was until I had to tell my son he was going to die. Every conversation I once thought hard is but a shadow now. A whimper.
Not long after my tender conversation with Mitch, Natalie came into the room and he started asking more questions about life and death. Natalie knelt down and hugged Mitch gently. My little boy leaned his head on his mommy’s shoulder as she comforted him in ways only a mother can. I had to turn my head so I could wipe the tears from my face. Tears that were streaming down my neck.
Over the coming days Mitch would ask questions about what’s on the other side. It is one thing to talk of life after death in church or in the abstract, it is quite another to come face-to-face with it. Death is bewildering.
As Mitch and our family journeyed through the dark wilderness of fear and loss we had strong impressions that so much more was happening. So much more than we realized. Mitch felt it. Natalie felt it. I felt it. Each independent from one another. Mitch talked about his impressions and quiet whispers to the soul. On a few occasions I shared with him some sacred experiences I have had in my life that have shown me there is life after life. I don’t need to rely on anyone’s beliefs – I know for myself, independent of any external source. I looked Mitch in the eyes and bore my soul to him and assured him that we are not alone. The spirit of those conversations were almost palpable.
I wish such a knowledge lessened the pain of loss. It doesn’t. Although I know some things for sure, that doesn't keep me from missing little Mitch with all of my heart. I long for my son like a weary traveler thirsts for water in a barren desert. It is that longing for him that drives me to live a life such that I might see him again.
In my life’s journey, I have come to understand that to know what is on the other side requires a change from the inside. Though I know certain things to be true, I still have a lot of work to do – so many things to change and mend because I am human, deeply flawed and the most broken of all men. But I try. God knows I try. I pray that I never get swallowed up in pride and lose sight of what’s on the other side.
As I wrote not long after Mitch passed away, “There is a place beyond the hills I cannot see. A place my little boy waits for me. I run to him.”
I took this photo at the cemetery one evening as I was writing about my son and our family’s journey through the wilderness of grief. I have spent some critical time thinking about Mitchell’s Journey of late … what it is and what it is not. I hope this blog, for as long as it exists, is a place committed to honest and sincere reflections on hope, healing and finding happiness. I hope, also, it is fearlessly committed to telling the truth about sorrow and its many setbacks. The truth is, the journey of grief is not an intellectual journey nor is it a linear sequence of events and you're done. Grief is a tangled ball of yarn.
Though this page began as a quiet account of my son’s journey with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy it took an unexpected turn as it documented his death, our family’s journey with grief and now explores past experiences we had with our son. Perhaps what’s most interesting about Mitchell’s Journey is the vast majority of its followers are not afflicted with any disability at all but are somehow finding meaning with their own journey through life. My wife and I have been deeply touched by the private messages from others, who come from all walks of life, and have shared their story and how Mitchell’s Journey has helped them in one way or another. The moment someone decides to make a course correction in their lives, to love more intensely, to forgive more freely, or to live more fully, Mitchell’s Journey goes from cyberspace to real space – and that is well enough with me.
Though I write of deep grief, I do not live in a constant state of grief. Healing is happening. But healing hurts and I write of that, too. The hardest stories have yet to be told – and I will write them not because I'm stuck in those moments, but because others may be encountering those very moments at this moment. Perhaps those reflections will serve as a candle to others as they journey the dark wilderness of grief.
Among the recurring themes of Mitchell’s Journey are discussions of faith, making sense of sorrow, and reflections on love and loss. I suppose one could add to those themes the singularity of grief, that after all is said and done, the journey of grief is travelled by one. Although nobody can do that work for us – just because we must carry our grief alone, we need not walk alone, nor does the wilderness need to be completely dark. I have seen many of you respond to others who post on Mitchell’s Journey and are hurting – and each of you who do so become a candle in the wilderness. I think that’s beautiful.
I am still a bit surprised, at times, how lonely the journey of grief can feel. I have found that people can do or say things that might complicate the healing process were I to allow it. Some, speaking from the depths of their own pain have said things like, "just be glad you had 10 years and not 10 hours" or some who have lost a spouse say "at least you have/be grateful that you have your wife to lean on" and a million other variations of a familiar and insensitive theme. Rather than taking offense at their volley of sorrow, or comparisons of grief, I just recognize these people are still deep in their own wilderness. I don't know their sorrows any more than they know mine – I only know grief is a heavy burden for all who bear it. I only know they hurt and I wish it weren't so.
I hope for as long as I live I can be a candle in the wilderness. For I have discovered the wilderness is vast and deep and exceedingly dark at times. I have also discovered what a little light can do.
The truth is I don't know what I'm doing here. I’m not a writer or a public speaker or anybody of significance … I’m just a daddy who misses his son with all of his heart. But as long as I have a heart, I will share it … because where there is love there is light and where there is light, there is hope.
To all of you, who love and lift others and have become a candle in the wilderness, shine on.