Marco entered the ring last night and defeated his opponent in 20 seconds.
20 seconds ...
He remains undefeated.
Marco and his loving family invited a young man with DMD along with his family, to watch the fight and to get to know them better.
When Marco had the victory mic he could have said anything - and he chose to turn attention to this young man in a wheelchair sitting with his family not far from the ring and said, "I love you buddy."
Marco, you won twice last night. Keep up the good fight.
Here is a link to the young man, Caden, who Marco honored last night.
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Cure-for-Caden/136562783054288
Marco shares his gratitude and character after the fight here:
https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=807765899259019&pnref=story
This was Mitchell’s first morning after being released from the hospital to die at home. Though in the comfort of my own home and bed, I didn't sleep well that night – I wept and I prayed for my son to be delivered from the jaws of death. If ever there were a time for hope, this was it.
As I walked into my son’s bedroom I couldn't help but notice how the morning sun shone softly through his window and warmed the color of everything … as if to promise that not all of life is dark and there is cause for hope.
“For if we, being human, can love our children so intensely, how much more might He love us? I can scarcely imagine. I can scarcely take it in.”
I asked Mitch how he slept and he said in a soft voice “I slept great, Dad.” He was home – and that is where he loved to be. Until this moment I had never considered it possible to be in both heaven and hell at the same time. Yet there I was, in the middle of both… a beautiful agony.
Mitch was tired and weak so I helped him sit up while Marlie was still in his arms. She looked at him for a moment and then gave him a soft kiss. Mitch smiled and hugged his puppy close to his face. He loved having his own baby dog. Marlie had a mission of mercy to perform and for whatever reason she seemed to forget she was a puppy whenever she was near Mitch. This little dog that was no more than 3 months old gave my son much comfort.
I’ll never forget, despite my profound sorrow, the feelings of hope and peace I felt this day – and many days thereafter. Reflecting back on our time with my son on hospice I have come to understand those moments of peace weren't a promise of deliverance from hardship, but a faint whisper … a spiritual glimpse that all was as it was meant to be and that there were greater forces at work than I knew. So I learned to put faith in that.
I learned early in my life it is not reasonable to hope for a life free of hardship and sorrow. I cannot hope to be the only human exception, exempt from the sorrows of this life. But I can hope the tempest of sorrow and grief in my heart will one day calm. I can hope to find meaning, to search for understanding and experience growth. Those things are eternal and the things for which we can truly hope.
I also hope to see my son again one day. When I do, I will run at reckless speeds to hug him. I will wet his face and his neck with my tears and I will tell him how much I love him. And perhaps, when I turn around I might see the Father of my soul do the same to me.
I hope.
For if we, being human, can love our children so intensely, how much more might He love us? I can scarcely imagine. I can scarcely take it in.
(This story isn't about Mitch, but is somewhat related to Mitchell's Journey and the power of community)
Less than a week ago I received an email from an old high school friend from Lake Tahoe who also follows Mitchell's Journey. Over the years she has become an even dearer friend of mine. In her message she told me her husband was fishing and caught a camera. When he came home from his fishing trip Jamie (my friend) checked to see if the memory card still worked. It did.
As fate would have it, the camera had been entombed in the ice cold lake for about 3 years and the family to whom it belonged had photos of Riverton and lived in South Jordan, Utah. As fate would also have it, I live near all of that.
So, upon hearing this I posted the story of the lost and found camera with a couple of photos to some of my friends and a few local Facebook groups. Another dear friend of mine, 先生 Jesse Meadows (of Riverton Karate), circulated the story within her network, too, and from there the power of social media flexed its mighty muscles. In less than 3 days the owner of the camera was found.
It was fun to be a small part of a neat chain of events. Two articles have been written (Utah/Nevada) and evidently CBS / National news is interested in telling more of the story.
What are the odds?
Clearly, the odds are in this woman’s favor.
Photo credit: Jamie Clark (my awesome photographer friend from Tahoe)
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Jamie-J-Clark-photography/133250776762577
http://www.ktvn.com/story/24558594/tahoe-camera-mystery-hooks-local-fisherman-photographer
http://www.sltrib.com/sltrib/news/57464189-78/camera-levitre-garnett-lake.html.csp
Mitch was the quietest of scouts. I took this photo at his last Pack Meeting. It was a cold December night when Mitch received a handful of advancements he had worked hard to earn. As he placed the small pile of awards between his legs, he held on to his rank advancement with a thoughtful look on his face. I wondered what was on his mind. I asked him later that night but he smiled and looked in the other direction, like he often did.
Something was changing inside him; I couldn't put my finger on it, but I sensed it. A year and a half before his heart failure I told a few people close to me about my growing impressions that Mitchell’s soul was being prepared for a significant change. I knew something was happening.
One of his fellow Cub Scouts pushed Mitch in his wheelchair back with his Pack. While not a Boy Scout, yet, I kept thinking of Mitch and the Scout Oath that begins “On my honor … I will do my best.”
Mitch was always on his honor, and he always did his best. Because Mitch was a young man of honor I trusted him implicitly. I never once worried he would break his word. I knew he would never lie. To Mitch, honor was everything.
Earlier that fall Mitch was showing me one of his favorite games, The Sims, and described how he was struggling with something. He loved that game because it provided a simulated framework for his imagination. He didn't have the muscle strength to build forts and other things young boys did. In fact, he was reaching a point that picking up a glass of milk at the dinner table became increasingly hard for him - sometimes impossible. So certain video games became a fertile ground for his mind and set his youthful imagination free. On this particular game Mitch had built a beautiful home, had a job, managed his relationships and money wisely … he even had some pets that he cared for. When I learned of his struggle with a part of the game I suggested he search online to find a workaround and he responded, “No …” then paused a moment, “that would take the challenge out of it - and then there would be no point. The game would be no fun.” Those were his exact words.
I was so impressed with Mitchell’s discipline to not take short cuts – but to do the work the game was designed to require. Mitch knew the value of struggle. He understood the struggle was the reason. He knew struggle created an environment for growth and change. I turned to him and said, “Mitchie, you are exactly right. Don’t ever change.”
A few months would pass and my sweet boy would die, and part of me would die also. While my heart cries out and searches for some kind of workaround for grief, to make my way through this hardship more easily, I remember my son’s reverence of the struggle. Mitch taught me that to cheat ourselves from the hard stuff is to cheat ourselves of the good stuff.
How is it these little children come into our lives and teach us infinitely more that we teach them? True it is, out of small and simple things are great things brought to pass.
Last night I went to a Young Men’s orientation for youth in my neighborhood and church. My oldest son, Ethan, was recently called to be a youth leader among his peers and he was asked to speak briefly to some parents and younger boys who were coming of age to join Boy Scouts and other church/youth programs. I was so proud of Ethan. In the same room was one of Mitchell’s best neighborhood friends, Derek. Mitch loved Derek like a brother. I cannot look at him and not think of my fallen son. He was one of the boys who played Nerf wars with Mitch (see album Special Ops). I’ll write more of their special relationship another day. But I realized last night that Mitch should have been in this meeting, too. But Mitch was gone … and the world rushed madly on.
Therein lies another challenge for those who grieve. Our loved ones become a footnote in history. Memories fade as the somber silence is slowly flooded with the noise of now. And that is how it should be, I suppose. We must move on – yet we’re desperate to remember. I long for my son today even more than the day I lost him.
So last night was sobering for me. I sat in the same room this photo was taken almost a year ago and saw a rising generation of young boys advancing from one phase of life to the next. I sat in the back, near the exit in case emotions overcame me. I saw an empty chair where my son should have been and my heart ached to see his shy smile and hear his quite voice. I could almost see him there … looking back at me to make sure I was there and that he wasn't alone.
In my mind I remembered once again the Scout Oath “On my honor I will do my best …” and thought of my son. A little boy who was weak and broken … who honored the struggle as both necessary and rewarding. I suppose when we've figured that out we can truly advance.
Thank you, son. On my honor, I will do my best.