As far as I can remember, every time I've encountered a catastrophe in life I was bewildered by the challenge in front of me. “How can I possibly do this?” I would think to myself, “I’m not capable or prepared.”
When we learned of Mitchell’s diagnosis the road ahead appeared broken and treacherous and seemed to stretch for miles and miles … even to infinity. Those were days that had me struggling to catch my breath and steady my step. One thing I've learned on Mitchell’s Journey is the first mile is always the hardest.
The truth is, we've had many first miles. The day Mitch was diagnosed with DMD was a first mile and the road ahead was obscured by fear and the fog of the unknown. Often, for the first while, I found myself stumbling over … everything. The weight of grief was new to me and I had to learn to adjust to new burdens. Over time, the journey got a little easier. It wasn't that the obstacles were different or burdens removed, but my ability to navigate grew stronger. I have my Father to thank for that – for He has been my tutor in matters of the soul … perfectly kind and infinitely patient. One day I will fall at His feet and thank Him for everything.
At various points along our son’s journey we would encounter new challenges and new first miles. The day we learned Mitchell’s heart was failing was a new first mile, a new challenge. Six months later I would take this photo as we learned therapies weren't working: another first mile. Never had a hallway felt so long. Before we knew it we learned sweet Mitch was experiencing end-stage heart failure … another first mile. Finally, in what seemed in the blink of an eye, my son died and I had to walk the longest, loneliest mile of my life. Heaven felt next door, yet so far away.
Just yesterday I visited Mitch at the cemetery. I wanted to place two solar lights that might shine on his headstone at night. While there I met a woman whose husband died tragically just over a year ago. He is buried just a few plots away from my son. She had 3 beautiful children and a kind demeanor. My heart went out to that family and I grieved for them. My heart went out to those young children who are without a father. I prayed in my heart they would find comfort and peace.
At one point I asked how her grief journey was going and she replied just as I suspected … a mixture of progress and pain. She then told me how others tried to prepare her for the 1 year milestone … that somehow everything would get easier after that. To her disappointment, the one year anniversary passed and nothing changed – grief remained. Her loss and heartache was the same. I identified with her and said I heard the same nonsense from others. I told her I thought what she was feeling was normal and that I felt the same way.
I had the words in my mind, but I didn't think to say them to her; I just said to myself, “The first mile is always the hardest.” As I drove home I began to ponder what the first mile means to me. It isn't measured by time or anniversaries (such a thought is foolishness) … to me the first mile is a metaphor that points to deeply personal journey of grief. It can’t be seen or measured – only felt. Some people seem to run the first mile quickly, others walk, some crawl … but at some point in our journey with grief we make it past the first mile.
How do we know when we've passed the first mile? I’m not sure I know the answer … but at least for me, I think I have passed that threshold because I don’t live in a constant state of grief. Today, I have grief moments, almost daily, but I don’t live in a constant state of grief. Yes, I still weep and long for my son, but like a summer storm, it passes and soon I see the sun.
To be clear, grief is the longest mile I've ever known. Indeed, the journey of grief seems to stretch out to infinity; but I know where that road leads, even to eternity.
Yet, I am still mortal … I see so little, and understand even less. Though I know my son’s soul lives on, the father in me is empty and bereft. Thus, the pain of grief remains. Though my legs are weary and I often stop to catch my breath, this much I know: I've passed the first mile and I hurt a little less.
I get a lot of private inquiries about how our family is doing; these kind people recognize Mitchell's Journey has become a place of reflection on grief and healing, yet gently ask how my other children are doing.
Just last night Laura-Ashley went to her first Prom. She always asks me to take her photos and I love doing them for her because she is my precious daughter and I love her so.
Portraiture is not my thing for many reasons - perhaps because, any more, everything has already been done before. Despite my tendency to steer away from portraits, I enjoy trying them from time-to-time.
Last night, before my daughter's dinner date, I took their Prom photos. It was fun.
My daughter has grown quite a bit since Mitchell passed away. She really, really loved him and grieves in ways only a sister knows. We talk about him often in loving, happy ways.
As a father and parent, I am pained daily by my son's absence, yet I never loose sight of the beautiful gift of family and the wonderfully loving children I still have.
My cup, while broken, runneth over. And I am grateful.
There are so many layers to Mitchell’s Journey … so many stories to share.
I remember taking our young family to the family ranch in southern Utah. I had nicknamed it, “The Other Side of Narnia” because there was something magical about ranch’s relative isolation from the world. At first I used to get frustrated cell signals are spotty at best – most of the time I don’t get one. But then, in a moment of sanity, I realized what a blessing it is to be cut off from the rest of the mad world so I could focus on the things that truly mattered.
One summer afternoon, just before the sun was about to set, I found Mitch, tiny Wyatt and my step-father sitting on a bench by a pond talking as only grandparents and grandchildren know to do. My heart swelled with gratitude to see this good man love my children. There sat a man who didn’t raise me and had every reason to be about other things that day. For that seems to be the work of men … to be busy building, chasing or collecting things. Instead, he choose to stay with my boys and spend time with them.
In 1931, William Lyon Phelps wrote, “The final test of a gentleman is his attitude toward children. I wonder if all men remember as vividly as I do [how] grown-up people treated us …” I thought of that statement as I watched Garth … I was so grateful to see this good man spend loving time with my boys. He wanted them to know they were important and loved. That he invested time was good, but he invested his love and attention and that was greater. There is a difference.
My mother and Garth drove to our home the night Mitch passed away. I remember them both entering my son’s room, long after the sky became dark. They sat reverently at the foot of my little boy’s bed and seemed to peer upon him with sorrow, reverence and compassion. I don’t know what crossed Garth’s mind that night. Perhaps he thought of his own son he lost a few years prior. A son he loved dearly and misses so. As I looked at my step-father peer upon my dying son, I remembered this photo and tender moment between him and Mitch. To this day, I don’t think Garth knows what this singular moment meant to my son and how often Mitch reflected on it. I will forever be grateful for this moment.
I am just like every man that ever was. I am flawed and sometimes unsure of myself – and perhaps I’m more transparent than I should be. But I believe what you get should be what you see. I am also prone to build, chase and collect things. Any more, I am trying to build my family, chase my children around the couch in laughter and collect moments that matter. For in the end, those are the things that last. Those are the things that shape tomorrow and protect our hearts from a deeper form of grief and sorrow.
These are the moments that matter most. When I die and see my Father and Son, they won’t care about the cars I drove or the depth and size of my treasure trove. Instead, they’ll care more about things one cannot see … the love in my heart and whether I gave to others in need generously.
No matter how brilliant or carefully our lives are planned, if we don’t give mind to the little things, we will miss life’s magic moments. Best to catch these little moments ... catch them while you can.
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Note: Mitch loved fishing with all of his heart. This summer, Mitchell’s Journey is sponsoring an MDA Summer Camp activity named after our son. We want to help other young boys go fishing and make memories that matter. If you haven’t signed up for our Miles for Mitchell run, please do. This is the run that will help fund this activity and other things that matter.
Here’s the link to our charity run:
www.raceentry.com/race-reviews/miles-for-mitchell
Last night I spoke to a woman's organization about Mitchell's Journey. I was asked to speak several months ago by a woman whose name was both familiar and unfamiliar to me. I didn't connect the dots until last night when she started talking to me as I was setting up my computer. She said, "My daughter is Sage, Mitchell's friend." Suddenly everything came back to me and I remembered meeting them at Mitchell's funeral. It took a great deal of effort to hold back my tears. While there was already a great deal of love in my heart, it began to burst at the seams.
Their theme for the night was entitled "Some Extraordinary Women" so I focused my address on the amazing women who were part of Mitchell's Journey and the impact their love and service had on our family. From the meatloaf story, to paper hearts and yellow ribbons, there were so many amazing women who stepped up and offered love and comfort.
I also spoke about the special relationship between Natalie and her sister, Sonya, and how they were a special gift to each other ... but most especially Mitch. Each story I shared drew focus to the extraordinary women in my life and the incredible blessings that came as a result of them and their selfless service.
I recorded audio of the event and will try to post it soon. At one point during my time with these extraordinary women I said I was convinced women are the most powerful force in nature. With all that I am, I believe that is true.
I then shared a quote by Neal Maxwell that read: "When the real history of mankind is fully disclosed, will it feature the echoes of gunfire or the shaping sounds of lullabies?"
In my estimation, women have more influence on the affairs of this world than society at large appreciates.
After my address I was blessed to meet some of these remarkable women with whom I spoke. Natalie also spent time visiting with everyone and I looked upon my wife with continued admiration for the good, tender and loving woman she is. I loved the spirit of love that was felt in that room.
Earlier that night I was made aware that a woman in the audience lost her son almost 18 years ago. She sat kindly at a chair as I knelt down to visit with her. I could see a depth in her eyes that seemed to speak of the long journey of grief and healing she's experienced. After a few moments of visiting she pulled from her purse a framed photo of her lovely son. My heart swelled with compassion and love for her and her son. I hugged her and told her that I cared. I hope she felt it, because I meant it.
There, too, was an extraordinary woman ... a mother who loves her son deeply and will never forget him. The thought occurred to me that as long as love last, grief lasts.
With each passing day, I think I'm beginning to better understand our journey moving forward. While our journey was borne of sorrow it has become a journey of hope, healing and finding happiness.
There is so much we hope to do with Mitchell's Journey - so many ways we want to lift and help others. We hope to see you in person or virtually as we have our third annual Miles for Mitchell on April 25th.
www.raceentry.com/race-reviews/miles-for-mitchell