At the top of my property, next to our secret forest, I built a small workshop. As a young boy I was a compulsive fort builder. Whether I made forts out of pillows and blankets, or an empty cupboard, cardboard box or simply the space between the wall and a long couch; wherever there was a void I filled it with my imagination. I sought for spaces invisible to others and would use them to step away from the known world and build my own. Building things was a big part of my childhood and I am grateful for parents who never took that away from me.
So this workshop it is something of a fort – only a little cooler than the ones I built as a kid. It has a small refrigerator, microwave (for popcorn), TV/DVD player, lights and more. It isn't fancy, but it is magical, especially for kids. I remember showing it to Mitch for the first time and he said, “Dad, you mean we can make popcorn up here? Can we keep our favorite popsicles in this freezer?” I answered yes, to which my son said, “Coooool.”
When winter came, nothing was more exhilarating than to look out the window and see approaching storm cross the valley and finally surround us in a snow-globe like flurry; all the while we were snug in our fort, warmed by a heater and listening to Christmas music while building stuff that was fun.
I built the shed primarily as a workshop so my kids could have a place to get away and build things – but most importantly to build their confidence and skills. We first started by building bases for their little Star Wars and Halo figures. I would go to a craft store and fill the shopping cart with raw materials and then invite my boys to make something. They would use a hot glue gun to build scaffolding, meld blocks, rocks and trees to a spray-painted foam core board. They even attached tiny battery operated lights for their night battles. Sometimes I wish I were still a kid.
I was surprised to see my boys become more aware of the world around them and how they would often find small rocks, twigs and other things … things the world thought rubbish and say, “Dad, this would be great for one of our bases.”
I helped where I was needed, but for the most part I put them in motion and stepped aside and let my children freely explore. I marveled watching them build things with their imagination. This photo of Mitch and one of the many bases he built brings back great memories. He was so proud of it and I was so proud of him.
In my workshop remain uncompleted bases Mitch, Ethan and I were working on the summer and fall of 2012. I think I’m going to take Ethan and Wyatt up there to finish them soon. Ethan is older now and he would rather skate with his friends – and that’s okay, too, because growing up means moving on to new and different things. But I hope a little of the young boy in Ethan remains and never grows up.
There is still a little boy in me. Perhaps that, among many reasons, is why I have grieved so deeply over the loss of my son ... because the little boy in me lost a best friend, too.
Though I wish I had more time to build forts and other things with my son, and my heart I cries that Mitchie is not with me, I know we are not on this earth to build forts, mansions, or riches. We are here to build the human soul; souls that know light from dark, pain and happiness, walk by faith and gain knowledge.
I will keep building my other children the best I know how. I am certain to stumble and surely will fall, but I promise my children I will give them my all.
Last Spring my wife and I drove to Mitchell’s elementary school to collect his personal and school belongings. The air was cold and the sky was wrapped in a dull, grey blanket of clouds that seemed to match the mood of things. As we approached the school I reflected on all of the amazing teachers and staff who had done so much to support and love our family and I was overcome with gratitude. There was no coldness in my heart.
I was doing okay until his teacher reached for a file box that contained everything that was Mitchells. In an instant, I was overcome by strong emotions and I did all that I could to hold back a massive surge of tears. Tears came anyway. My hands trembled and my body quaked as I quietly gasped for air. The pain of this moment was palpable.
There, in a cardboard box, were items that to a stranger would have no value. But to us, its contents were priceless: a plastic container filled with pencils and crayons that Mitchell collected, a name tag, pieces of paper with his handwriting … a potpourri of elementary school artifacts that to me were more valuable than all the treasures of ancient Egypt.
As Mitchell’s teacher (Mrs. Masina) handed the box to Natalie she gave her a hug. I stood a few feet away fighting back the tears, doing all that I could to keep composed. All I wanted to do was curl up in a corner and sob. This compassionate teacher described how much Mitchell meant to her and that she loved him – it was clear that she was hurting, too. With a broken voice she admitted handing the box over to us was difficult because she loved Mitch and she felt like she was giving part of her heart away.
After Mitchell passed away she had each student write down their memories of him and carefully laminated, then bound the pages into a book. Each page was thoughtfully authored from his peers; each page was personal and authentic. Mitchell was universally referred to by his classmates as kind, deeply caring, fun to be with and humble. Reading through these hand written letters and drawings from 5th Graders, I learned quite a bit about Mitch. I also learned a lot about 5th graders … especially what they notice. I was reminded of one of my favorite sayings: “Oh what a tangled web do parents weave when they think their children are naive.” In reading their observations it was clear these young children were reflective, thoughtful and keen observers. These young students were my teacher and I have been taking notes.
After we collected Mitchell’s desk belongings we went to the front office to get his scooter, which was charging in the Principals supply room. As I unplugged his scooter I noticed a collection of sports day ribbons hanging from his handlebar, evidence my little boy strived to achieve and won. He hung those ribbons from his scooter as a reminder to himself he could do hard things. I was so proud of Mitch and wished he was sitting there so I could hug him and tell him what a great boy he was. But he was not there and nor would he ever be; never had a chair seemed so empty.
This painful but gentle exchange between Mitchell’s mother and school teacher was a gentle reminder education is more than academics – that knowledge without humanity is hollow. The best teachers also teach what it means to be human – not by what they say, but who they are. Mrs. Masina taught humanity and love beautifully … and so did her students.
So here we stand on the other side of Mitchell’s education … and suddenly we are students of the hardest lesson life has to teach. Our homework, invisible to the eye, must be worked out in quiet of the mind and heart. What we take and learn from our hardships is engraved in our soul and shapes what we become. I get the impression the homework of grief will take a lifetime to complete.
When I look at this photo and see an empty-handed mother leaving our son’s school, I am reminded there is a classroom none of us leave alive.
Sometimes we are teachers … but we are always students.
I have a neighbor who, over the years, has become a dear friend. I have always sensed a goodness in his heart, unique among men. But it wasn't until this day that I saw how good his heart truly was.
When he heard our son was admitted to Primary Children’s Hospital for end-stage heart failure he quietly came to visit Mitch and offer some love and support. He didn't need to come all that way to see us – he could have sent a text message or an email. But, in an effort to show how much he cared, he went out of his way to cheer Mitch on.
I’ll never forget how gently this noble man sat by Mitch and talked to him; he was considerate of my dying son and had a quiet and loving demeanor; he was never overbearing, but gentle and kind. He listened to Mitch, told some jokes and made him smile. Most importantly Mitch felt loved.
As I escorted my friend out of the CICU and down the dark hospital hall he turned to me with tears in his eyes. Suddenly, tears burst out of mine, too. I don’t know what crossed his mind at this moment; perhaps he realized how much my heart was breaking and though Mitch was not his son, he mourned with me and felt a measure of our family’s sorrow. Once again, I was on the receiving end of that most profound doctrine of mourning with those that mourn – and I was blessed because of it. I don’t know why mourning with those that mourn helps, but it does.
It wasn't long after my friend left the hospital that Mitch said in a soft voice, “Dad, Nate is so nice to me. I like him.” I kissed Mitchell’s forehead and said, I like him too. I was so grateful that my neighbor and friend took time out of his busy life to mind my son’s other heart and let him know he was loved.
Minding the heart is not so much a tricky thing – it goes beyond the words we say, to feelings we bring. So often I've heard people struggle over what to say to those who grieve. Sometimes they say nothing, for fear they may offend. Others try to rescue and pile on advice in an effort to mend. Most often I hear, “I don’t know what to say.” To them I respond, “Don’t worry, that’s okay. It is seldom the words you say or splatter, but the feeling behind them that shows you care … that their feelings matter.”
Far better to say “I care” and mean it, than lather on words, advice or dismiss someone’s grief and demean it. Minding the heart is so simple, but so profound; we must only listen with our heart and remember love is a feeling more than a sound.
So thank you, my neighbor and kind friend, for minding our hearts and helping us mend; not so much by your actions and words, but the love in your heart which transcends what is heard.
To those who've fought for freedom and peace,
And those left behind to battle wars of grief,
I reverence you.
To military officers who reached out to my son,
To love and encourage him, as though he were the only one,
I thank you.
To the men and women who stand in harm’s way,
So little boys like mine might have lived another day,
I honor you.
To those who have fallen, in love or in war,
And the souls left empty handed and yearn for “just one more”,
I understand you.
On this day of remembrance may we never lose sight,
Those who fought battles and surrendered their life,
I love you.
May we remember those who gave life their best,
And live in a way that honors them, whatever days we have left,
I promise you.
And though our hearts may be weary and in need of rest,
May we remember our fallen, and life’s greatest test,
Lest we forget.