My dear wife and I had just delivered the most difficult public address of our lives. It had never occurred to us that parents don’t typically speak at their child’s funeral because emotions are so very near the surface. For some reason, we did.
After the funeral service we made the somber journey to the cemetery. My little son was in the hearse in front of us and all I could think was, “He must be so cold and scared and lonely.” I had those same nearly schizophrenic feelings when I was 19 years old and drove my father’s casket alone in the back of a pickup truck from Edmonton to southern Alberta. It was snowing outside and I agonized that my dad was cold and I wanted to protect him like he so often tried to protect me. I cried a lot on that long drive – I was young, sad and very much afraid. Although those feelings of wanting to protect my father were strong then, they were so much more intense toward my son. What you see here was the worst commute of my life.
As we followed our little boy I couldn't help but also think back on my life with Mitch. Instantly I had feelings of guilt and grief and a longing to hold him such that I had never before known. I cried on this drive, too – and my soul cried out even harder.
I couldn't imagine it then, but I see it now: death and dying, the funeral and all its preparations, as difficult as they are … that’s the easy part. It is in the quiet of things, long after death has come to steal away that which is most precious … it is when the dust settles and the world spins madly on … that is when the struggle truly begins.
I have heard many who wrestle with grief share feelings of personal guilt over a million-and-one things they wish done differently. I understand those feelings because I have felt them, too. I wrote in a post last December, “That list of “what ifs”, however counterfeit and scattered with lies, remains glossy, persuasive and deceptively wise.”
Though I may be tempted to feel guilt for what might have been, or perhaps even should have been, I know I always had the welfare of my family at heart and I did the very best I knew how. I wasn't perfect, but I was perfect at trying – and that is good enough for me. Grief is hard enough – guilt makes grief more difficult. Guilt is a lot like fire: if it is properly managed it can wield great power and affect change. If mismanaged, or gets out of control, it can burn us and cause deep scars.
Yet there are so many moments that invite feelings of guilt: from the foolish things people say, to those who suggest we’re grieving wrong … because we’re not doing it their way. To all of that nonsense I say, ignore it. It is easy to critique the grief of others for those who never knew it or bore it.
I don’t feel guilty for having good days or moments of happiness – as though I've betrayed some unspoken rule of grief. To the contrary, I seek after such moments daily. We are made to find joy – and joy is what I seek.
On the other side of the grief spectrum there are some who suggest, “Mitch wouldn't want you to be sad.” Yet, I am sad that he is gone. I don’t feel guilty for grieving or feeling deep sorrow over the loss of my son … for I believe he understands my grief … that grief is the language of the heart and points to unspeakable love and unimaginable loss. Why feel guilty for that? I don’t feel guilt for grieving and I never will.
Mixed in the many layers of grief are the questions “Why me? Why this? Why?” We may never know the answers … at least in this life. But, I can’t help but think there’s a relationship between grief and grace. At least to me, it seems if we endure our struggles well, grief can become our teacher and open our hearts to a deeper compassion toward others.
Though I wish the death of my son never happened, it did. Shaking my fist at God in anger won’t change that … in fact, that kind of anger would change me … and I don’t want that.
I’ll never turn my fist toward God. Instead, I turn my ear toward Him and do my best to listen. And, when I slow down and give my heart some space, I am convinced grief is a key to grace.
Mitch followed me wherever I went. He was my shadow … my dear child and sweet little friend. He seemed to always find comfort being around me and in his absence I have come to realize how much comfort I took in being around him.
Last summer we had some family over for a BBQ . Everyone was inside or up the hill in our back yard talking. I found myself at the grill doing what dad’s do and I turned to the place Mitch usually sat while I cooked and he wasn't there. Never a chair seemed so empty. I started to cry.
I took this photo a summer prior as Mitch sat with me while I prepared dinner at the grill one hot summer evening. It was a perfect night and I enjoyed listening to Mitch talk to me about his plans for the future. I normally never take selfies because I am far more interested in what I see in other people than I am in seeing myself. But this time I made an exception because I was with my sweet boy and I wanted a photo of the two of us. I almost didn't take this – but I am so glad I did.
I think I am beginning to understand the deeper meaning of the scriptural passage “the valley of the shadow of death.” Over the years I have heard many recite that passage as though they were words from a hallmark card. But I have come to learn that all of ancient scripture are not only accounts of mankind’s dealings with God, but a record of real sorrows, what we’re to learn from them and why we suffer. Deep inside that poetic prose are words that carry heavy meaning.
Death indeed has cast its shadow. Shadows, by their very definition limit ones view – we cannot see what happens over there. And in death’s towering shadow I find myself on a journey through the valley of grief … a valley that is deep in the shadows … deep in grief. It is a place where I stumble and a place where I weep as my heart and mind search for my son and that unspeakable peace.
I miss my son, my shadow. I love him. I weep for him. And as I find my way through the valley of grief and sorrow, deep in the shadow of death, I am not afraid … for I know God lives. I know He loves us. And while being mortal we may be required to suffer – there is a divine reason for all that we experience. If we look inward and upward we can learn and grow … even through the dark shadows and deep valleys that only God knows.
Mitch was always concerned about falling. Unlike “regular kids” [as he called them] he lacked the strength to break his fall and lessen the impact of hitting the ground. Gravity was no friend to him and when he fell, he fell hard. Toward the end of his life Mitch found it increasingly difficult to get up from the ground by himself. Sometimes it was impossible.
Sweet Mitch wanted so much to run and play like other children. And when he did, he got himself in trouble. Every time he tried, he fell. Unlike a benevolent tutor, nature never rewarded his effort. In fact, the harder he tried the weaker he became.
Last summer we took our kids to a park just down the road from our home. I loved the summer clouds towering like mountains in the sky. Mitch and I used to lay on the grass and look in to the vast blue and imagine what it would be like if we could bounce from cloud to cloud like trampolines. This was one of those days.
Mitch was doing his best to run around and be like the others but he couldn't keep up. At one point he fell down pretty hard and Natalie raced to lift him. She said to him, “It’s okay honey, I’ll lift you when you fall.” I loved hearing that. I wrote about it in my journal that night and I cried. Her words kept playing back in my mind like a beautiful sonnet with a heavenly promise … “I’ll lift you when you fall.”
And that’s how it was with my wife … ever there to lift our children when they fell. If there was one thing Mitch could count on, it was his mom. She was there for him, always.
Mitch fell a lot this day … and he fell a thousand times since. Many times it was painful. But he always tried. And his mom, an angel made mortal … brokenhearted … was always there to lift him.
I miss my son. Oh, how I miss him. I would do anything to be tired again … to be worn out in his service. What I wouldn't do to be inconvenienced by his care if that meant I could hold his hand once more and look into his eyes and tell him how much I love him.
In this photo are two broken giants that I admire greatly. I stand deep in their shadow. I pray that I have the courage to try like my son tried. And I pray that I have the selflessness to set aside my own comforts and lift others like my sweet wife lifted my son. These two are my heroes. And I love them.
I cannot help but think that somehow, when all of this is over, we will find in our brokenness was the secret to being made whole. That our weakness, if we seek divine help, can be made strengths.
There is a reason we fall. And a reason we were meant to lift.
I’ll never forget the glow of the evening sun reflecting warmly from my snow-covered windowsill. By this time, we knew our son was at risk of sudden death and that each moment was more precious than the one before. Time was running short and we were very much afraid. So very afraid.
Natalie reached down and grabbed Mitchell's face, looked him in the eye, and told him how much she loved him. I don't know what Mitchell thought or felt at that moment, all I know is my heart grew a foot or two that day. However cold it was outside, I know he felt the warmth of his mother’s love – and Mitchell’s soft smile always set my soul on fire. A testament that gentleness can wield great power.
We knew death was circling our home and would soon thrash and claw at our door – so we just clung to each other and braced for death. Doctors at the time told us there was nothing left to do – that they had done their best. In a few short months from this photo, my little boy’s heart would stop and we would experience the deepest form of human grief. A place so dark, not even the light of noon day would light the way. And eventually, when we began to see … the broken road of grief would stretch out to infinity.
Like all who grieve, I wish I could go back in time to this very moment so that I could also grab Mitchell’s face, look him in the eyes and tell him that I loved him and how special he was to my heart. I would beg for him to play with me … to build Legos, draw pictures, cuddle and watch movies. I would have set aside everything I was doing to drink in one more moment. I did all that I knew to do … but I wish I did more. That is a burden of grief, too. Those moments of opportunity have long come and gone … and I’m reminded all we ever really keep are the things that we have done.
I was in a leadership meeting a few months ago where we were trying to deal with some challenges. A peer observed, speaking of someone who wasn’t stepping up to their responsibilities, “Well, he is really busy you know …” he paused a moment then gestured with his hand, “… busy with et cetera.”
I began to think deeply on that simple phrase … “busy with et cetera.” I thought back on my own life and began to take stock of my own life decisions: was I caught up in the froth of frilly things, or was I doing that mattered most? I’d like to think I always made the right choice – but when I’m honest, I know where I could have done things differently … done things better.
I’m not suggesting that everything in life be deep and heavy … I’m talking about the conversations I could have had with Mitch or my other kids, yet I was lost in my smartphone. Or that thing for work I chose to do on a Friday night, instead of spending time with my family. I’m talking about being anywhere, but nowhere.
It is so easy to get caught up in et cetera; the kinds of things that keep us from living in the moment and thriving … suddenly we find our souls shrinking … on the inside we’re dying. Et cetera: always pretending to be of substance, yet in truth is the thinnest of things … a deception of the heart that is, in the end, really quite mean. Et cetera has us drowning in information, yet ever thirsty for direction, meaning and truth. We get married to material things and lesser pursuits … unaware our once treasured relationships have become the caboose.
Now, I know I wasn’t that bad, you see … but seeing et cetera for what it is, I know what I don’t want to be.
When I sit at the foot of my son’s place of rest, I want so badly hug and love little Mitch as his daddy knows best. I would trade every et cetera that swept me away … I would give it all back for just one more day.