About a month ago a good friend and neighbor of mine thought they lost their elementary-age son. He didn't come home on the bus and was nowhere to be found at school. With each passing hour concern turned to crisis as they put in motion a community search for a sweet child who left no trace. Family, friends and neighbors gathered at their home to help look for their son. My wife and I joined the ranks of those willing to search. Natalie and I were weepy before we drove to their home because we desperately didn't want them to experience the loss of a child. As we knocked on their door, prepared to spend whatever time and effort in search of their precious son, we were relieved to discover they had just found him. Upon hearing the news, while standing in the entrance of their home, I quietly swallowed the swelling lump in my throat.
As I drove home, I lost it. I wept … and I wept.
At first I wept because I was happy my friend found his son. But soon my tears turned toward the loss of my own son, recognizing no mortal search crew could ever find him. Yet there are times in my mind and heart that I frantically want to search for him as though he were lost in a crowd of strangers. Times that panic and sadness course through my blood like battery acid because my son is out of my sight and no longer under my protection. Those moments are almost paralyzing. There was a time in my life that I used to awake from nightmares; always finding relief that the horror show I saw in my mind was only a dream. But after my son passed away, I found just the opposite was true … every morning I awoke into a nightmare. I have since learned that nightmares can be managed.
The other day I found Wyatt in Mitchell’s room talking to him as if he were there. Wyatt had so many things to say; and I just stood in the hallway in silent awe of my youngest son who was doing his best to sort things out. He loved his older brother and just wanted Mitch to know he loved and admired him. Wyatt knows Mitch isn't there in body, but wonders sometimes if his big brother is somewhere near him in spirit. I believe, on rare occasions, such communions can take place. But it is my experience those opportunities are rare and happen for a specific purpose. Most of the time, of necessity, we must walk through life with the dim flashlight of faith. For reasons of our own spiritual growth, that is how it must be.
As I entered Mitchell’s room I could tell that Wyatt wanted to talk. So I kissed his forehead softly and sat next to him as we started to talk about his brother. We both laughed. We both cried. Together we shared our favorite memories and how much we loved and missed Mitchie. And while our hearts were hurting, they were also healing.
I have lost my son … and in that loss I have found unexpected things: I have found a deeper love for my wife, Mitch and my other children. I have also found a renewed appreciation for life and my faith. And while I am strongly buffeted by moments of panic, horror and sadness because my son is gone, I know he is not.
My task, between now and the day I am laid to rest, is to not get lost in the thick of thin things … but to do what matters most. Always.
The sunset was so beautiful tonight. I kept telling myself "if only Mitch could see what I see" ... then, in a moment of quiet refrain, something whispered Mitch would say the same to me.
#mitchellsjourney — at Herriman City Cemetery.
http://360.io/43mQRj
About 4 years ago Mitchell’s great grandmother passed away. We attended her funeral deep in the heart of Wyoming, far from civilization as we knew it. It was early spring and the air was cold and vaguely punishing. Driving through the barren, lonely landscape of Wyoming I couldn't help but think about the many hardships and struggles experienced by the generations that came before us. Old brick and wood ruins lay sun-baked and weathered in grassy fields like fossils from an era long gone.
The eulogies were beautiful and gave tribute to a wonderful woman who lived a full life and did the best she could with her circumstances. She was my wife’s grandmother, and without her contribution to the gene pool my wife wouldn't exist, and neither would Mitch.
My children were too young to appreciate all that was happening; they, like me as a child, were more focused on cousins and casseroles. After the funeral service our family followed the remains of this lovely woman to the hearse. While all the young boys were busy fidgeting about in their suit jackets, Mitch sat there arrested … peering into shadows of a vehicle that contained no ordinary wood box. My son's eyes were fixed, deeply contemplative and ignored everything around him. It was as though Mitch sensed something was coming in the not-too-distant future.
Later that night Mitchell would ask me about death and the life after. He was genuinely curious and his questions went beyond the superficial concepts one would expect from a young child. I sensed in him a sincere desire to understand the realities of life and death. He wanted to know that which can only be seen and understood with spiritual eyes. As I sat at the edge of his bed, I shared with him some sacred experiences I had surrounding my father’s death about 18 years prior. While I will not share what we discussed, I did tell my son that I know that such a place exists. I know it as surely as I know my wife and children are in the next room. There was a peaceful, reassuring spirit that touched both of our hearts. Mitchell’s young mind was beginning to put the pieces together.
While I want so badly to pierce the veil of darkness between this life and the world beyond, I cannot. It is not meant for us to go there for reasons designed to strengthen and refine our souls; to build spiritual discipline and faith. And faith is a power so often talked about but little understood.
I have been taught that you cannot force a spiritual experience any more than you can force an egg to hatch before its time. But you can create a climate that fosters spiritual growth, nourishes and protects our souls and opens our spiritual eyes to that which cannot be seen or understood with mortal senses. But all too often we turn our pain into anger or pseudo intellectualism that would splinter the delicate spiritual fabric of our souls. It is ironic that, being mortal and flawed, we run from the very things that can save us.
We have all seen it time and again; when tragedy comes it is human nature to stand a little taller, to serve a little more and to look upward for heavenly help. It is easy to do the right things when the storms of life threaten to destroy the comforts and coliseums we build around us.
What is more telling of us is what we do when the sun is shining.
Losing my son has been a colossal emotional storm. One day when the strong emotional waves and hurricane-force winds subside, I vow to keep my eyes on true north and do what matters most. Because the time will come when, like my precious son, I will be placed in a box beside him and buried from human sight. And none of the comforts and coliseums we may be tempted to chase after will matter. Not one bit.
The day before Mitchell was discharged from the hospital, his neurologist came to say goodbye to him. She was the doctor who diagnosed him when he was 3 and monitored his muscular dystrophy growing up. She heard our little boy was suffering end-stage heart failure and she knew this would be the last time she would ever see him.
While the practice of medicine can get caught up in chemistry, physiology and biology, this image shows the nobility of compassionate medicine.
Visiting little Mitch was not easy for her. A few years prior her daughter had passed away and the rawness of her loss was still tender and returning to the CICU brought back painful memories. Yet she loved Mitchell more than her personal comfort and came to visit him anyway. She knew that a little boy was drowning in a sea of trouble, a sea whose undertow would pull him into the depths and darkness of beyond; and she reached out to him … to steady his worried mind and let him know she loved him.
I don’t know what crossed her mind as she drove home that day. Perhaps she cried like I cried. Probably not. But, I suspect her heart was heavy with sorrow by the loss of her own daughter and witnessing the imminent death of a little boy she had grown to love and care for. I do know the look on Mitchell’s face after she left told me he took great comfort that his doctor took the time to see him and offer the best medicine in time and eternity: love.
It has been almost 5 months since I lost my sweet son and time hasn't made things any easier. One thing I've learned on this painful journey is healing hurts. A lot. Not a day passes that I am not overwhelmed with the heaviest of grief and sorrow for having lost him. My daily commute to and from work is often accompanied by many, many tears. The deepest parts of my soul yearn to talk to him, to have his companionship, to hear his sweet voice and see his smiling face, and to let him know how much I love him. I never knew it was possible to weep so much, for so long. The wellspring of tears and sorrow seem to have an endless, generous reserve. Time grinds painfully by like sandpaper on an open wound. What I wouldn't do to have one more day with my son. There are times the ninth level of Dante's Inferno would seem a walk in the park.
And while my soul writhes from a pain I can barely endure, the wound from having lost my boy would seem to be healing other aspects of me, broken parts of me. I’m starting to learn that pain has the capacity to heal – another heavenly paradox, if we’ll allow it.
I wish I had the healer’s art; that I could have fixed his body. Yet, in all my efforts to save my son, I have begun to see that he’s the one who is saving me.