Several years ago I was visiting Rio Tinto to discuss a leadership development course I was designing for them. Before I left their mine site, I visited the gift shop and purchased a little souvenir for each of my kids. I knew Mitch loved gold, so I got him a little water vial filled with tiny flakes of a gold-like material. I remember handing it to Mitch only to see his eyes grow big and his smile even bigger. After admiring it for a while, I followed him to his room where he carefully placed it in his nightstand drawer, among his other treasures. His room, untouched since the day of his passing, still contains all the things he held dear, just the way he left them.
It wasn’t many months later Mitch came to my office with a serious look on his face. In his hand was the little vial of gold and a big question, “Dad, how much do you think I could sell this gold for?” My first instinct was to chuckle a little because it was such a cute question. I refrained. I could tell Mitch had something on his mind and when asked, he said he wanted to sell his gold so he could purchase a new Game Boy he had been saving up for. Unaware I purchased the souvenir for around $10, Mitch thought the gold was real and that it might be worth millions. I love the innocence of children.
I told Mitch that my little souvenir was only a symbol of gold, not real gold itself. I apologized that he thought it was worth more than it was. I could tell he felt a little deflated and that his youthful imagination got the best of him. I then got on my knees and looked him in the eyes and said, “Mitch, I have an idea. Why don’t I buy that gold from you, but you keep it safe for me?” As I handed him $50 he smiled and nodded with a faint look of relief that his treasure had at least little value.
I gave Mitch a big hug and told him how sweet I thought he was. I said, “Mitch, do you know what is worth more than all the gold on earth?” With his innocent, tender eyes, he shook his head as if to say no. “You, my son. You are worth more than all the treasures that have been or ever will be on earth. I would give up everything I own to have you in my life. I would sell the clothes off my back to keep you, and keep you safe.” I then pointed to his vial of fake gold and told him, “Even if that was real gold … even if our home was made of the rarest gold … you are worth infinitely more than that.”
I knew it wasn’t possible for Mitch to understand the depth of my love; for a child cannot know the love of a parent … they can only feel an infinitesimally small portion of that love. And though he didn’t understand how much I loved him, I know he felt my love in every way a young child can.
I have never forgotten that exchange with Mitch. Since then I have thought often about life’s greatest treasures. They aren’t the things I can buy with money. In fact, I have discovered, the very things I can buy get in the way of life’s greatest treasures.
So, as I’ve been contemplating my life treasures this weekend, I stumbled into this photo of my mother and Mitch and just wept. This is my treasure. This is my family.
It’s my mother’s birthday today and I have a little something to say: thank you, mom for being so good to my son – you always made him feel special, like he was the only one.
When I think of life’s greatest treasures, a lot can come to mind. The things we work so hard to purchase, and sometimes lose our souls to find. We mine the earth and till the ground, to harvest earth’s great bounty. Some choose spend their lives with drunken eyes in pursuit of things, forever they are counting. If I’m not careful, I too, can lose my mind; forgetting heaven’s promise, “seek and ye shall find.” We can waste our days chasing things of little worth; you know, the things we gather up but cannot leave this earth. Or, we can stop the madness and maybe catch our breath … long enough to awaken and remember things are only things, and to love a soul is best. So when I see this photo of my mother and my son; generations apart, yet full of love and having fun … I remember family is my greatest treasure, worth more than anything I could possibly measure.
Last spring we were visited by 4 kind women who had been following Mitchell’s Journey for some time. The woman closest to Natalie lived near us when we were young newlyweds. They quickly became soul sisters … you know, the kind of friend you don’t see for years and pick up exactly where you left off. That is them. Interestingly, I have the same relationship with her good husband.
As it turned out, her neighbors and friends pictured in this image stumbled into Mitchell’s Journey at various points and they realized they all had that in common and took compassion for the loss of our little boy. Together, they purchased a gift for our family; a most beautifully framed painting that was symbolic of heavenly help while we suffer, even in our darkest hours. I will write of that piece of art soon because it has touched us deeply.
Attached to the back of the artwork was a heart-felt letter written to our family, which ironically was as much a gift as the beautiful art that now graces our home.
After much thought, we decided to hang the painting in our bedroom so it could serve as a reminder that, though we suffer, we are helped by others, even angels, we cannot see. I know this to be true. I know it because I have felt it: not once, not twice, but many, many times. Another reason we wanted this painting to hang near our bed was so that on nights when the pain of loss is especially tender, our pillows wet with tears; or when we awake in a panic (in the fog of sleep, forgetting our son has passed) and wanting desperately to save Mitchell’s life, only to fully awake and realize he is gone; we wanted the first thing we saw to be this painting. For those moments between sleep and consciousness are our darkest hours.
I don’t think these good-hearted women realize to this day what they did for us. Not only did they mourn with those that mourn, they offered a token of love that pointed to a higher source of help … a reminder that despite the darkness we sometimes feel, heaven is never far away.
As I was taking photos this day I began to think back on Natalie’s relationship with her friend, Kristin, and how interesting it was all of these good women came together. I wrote in my journal, and even posted this phrase: “I used to envision life’s journey as a single, straight path: I’m born, I live, then die – its simple math. But the older I get, the more I’m beginning to see, how intertwined our lives really can be. Life’s not a path to be tread by one, but a web so intricate and woven ... It is, I am certain, heavenly spun.”
It is seldom clear to what end things are meant to be. I just take them as they come and try to see things as Heaven sees. I don’t know much, but I have learned a thing or three - one of them being: when it comes to heaven … the more you look, the more you see. And when I look at this photo, I see 6 earthly angels .. six tender mercies. Then, in a moment of heavenly delight, grief subsides and I feel everything's going to be alright.
Over the Christmas break I took some time off … pretty much everything. I didn't post much here or anywhere. I still captured a lot of photos – but my mind and attention were on my family.
Natalie prepared a fabulous candlelight meal Christmas Eve. As we sat in our dining room I noticed a place set for Mitch, right next to me … where he always sat. Never a chair felt as empty as that chair did that night. I didn't say anything, but I noticed it. I think everyone quietly noticed it. Sometimes, in the rush of routines, we forget and set six places at the dinner table. This time it was deliberate. This time it was quiet act of love, a yearning of the heart, that somehow our little son might join us, sight unseen. And if not, it served as a memorial to a little boy we all loved and missed – and whose company we dearly wished.
As we ate our meal, everyone took turns telling each other what we loved about one another. It was a tender time and I loved to hear my kids talk so kindly about their siblings. Sometimes when our children fight or argue, I worry. But alas, my heart swelled when I heard Laura-Ashley sincerely compliment her younger brothers; I was proud of Ethan as we listened to him offer thoughtful observations and gestures of love toward his siblings; and I loved to hear Wyatt express his love for everyone in his young, unique way. Natalie and I both took turns, too, telling our kids what we admired and loved about them. Of all the gifts we shared that holiday, the gift of love was chief among them.
At the end we all took turns saying what we thought Mitch might have said about each one of us. We giggled a lot and cried a little. It was a beautiful night. I took a photo of the candle at the table and thought about Mitchie's last Christmas, two years prior. I then began to think about how fast, yet slow, time has already passed and how grief is no less punishing today as it was the day of his passing.
The truth about grief is it is a flame that cannot be extinguished. As long as I love, there will be fire. The difference is found in how I carry it. How I channel it.
Grief can either burn me or help me see. I choose to see.
There was a point where Mitch was on the razors edge of ability and disability. This was the point in his life he began to witness his physical strength slip through his fingers like sand on a windy day. No matter how much he tried to keep his strength, it simply would not stay.
Because he seemed vaguely normal, it was easy for others to dismiss his physical needs. Mitch often grappled with whether or not he should drive his scooter or try to walk. For a while he asked his mom or myself to carry him so he could go distances, then be set down to walk on his own and not stand out from the crowd. He wanted to feel normal as long as possible. Natalie, his tender mother, spared no inconvenience to help him feel normal and empower him to be all that he could be.
On this day I remember hearing Mitch ask in his soft voice, “Mom, will you carry me?” Natalie whispered, “Oh Mitchie, as long as I have you, I’ll carry you.” I’ll never forget how Mitch smiled as he wrapped his arms around his mom and how she carried him down a sidewalk. Mitchie smiled at me as if to say, “Dad, I’m the lucky one.”
I cannot remember a single time Natalie ever complained about caring for Mitch. That’s what love does, you see: it turns burdens into blessings. Sure there were days of exhaustion and discouragement, even moments of grief and fear. But in the end, caring for our little boy meant we still had him - and having him was worth the weight of everything.
Sometimes when I look at all that weighs heavy on my shoulders I can be tempted to think my burdens are my enemy … after all, they hurt and they’re heavy. But when I quiet my heart and try to look at life through heaven’s lens, I know whatever burdens I encounter are not only tender teachers … they are my friends.
Still, when I examine my life honestly, I wonder why my Father even puts up with me – a soul so rebellious and proud as mine. The child in my heart wonders if I’m more work for Him than is worth it. Then, like a whisper, I feel a nudge back to this moment with my wife and son. I remember how much I love my child, no matter how broken he might have seemed; my love for him is infinite and stretches to eternity.
If I would carry my son gladly … patiently … might my Father do the same to me? Something tells me we’re all being carried in ways we cannot yet see.
Perhaps, when all is said and done, we’ll look back on our lives ... hardships and all ... and say, just like little Mitch, “I’m the lucky one.”