When I was young, I always sought after who was beautiful. After all, that’s what boys tend to do. But now that I've grown a little, I find myself seeking after what is beautiful. And I've learned beauty isn't so much seen, but felt … that in fact true beauty, the kind that matters, is never seen with the eyes but it is felt with the heart.
I remember this day so well. We drove to my in-laws ranch in Wyoming to spend the weekend away from the routines of life. Everything seemed slower over there – in part because it is so far away from everything we knew. I was in my early 30’s and it felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders. I worried about my business, payroll, my mortgage, health insurance, paying for diapers and everything else young dad’s worry about. I felt profoundly inadequate as a husband, father and professional – so I always found getting away a little cathartic and healing.
On this occasion we drove to a river a few miles from the ranch to explore its banks. At the time we didn't know about Mitchell’s diagnosis – it would be a few months after this photo that our dreams of the future would be dashed and our hearts forever broken. Everything that weighed heavy then would soon be made light in comparison.
Mitch was a tiny boy with a huge heart. Whenever I placed him on my shoulders he would always grab my hair like the reigns to a horse and steer me the direction he wanted to go. He would giggle while he tugged my hair and I would make pained faces because it hurt. Sometimes it hurt a lot … but that was a small price to pay for helping my son have a little fun.
As we started to walk to our car I saw my wife hold Mitchell’s hand as he took tiny steps along the road. I remember thinking at that moment if I were in search of the most beautiful scene in all eternity, for me, this was it. I remember getting emotional when I saw these two beautiful souls holding hands. That was love. That was beauty. I realized right then I was the richest, luckiest guy on earth and my heart was awash with gratitude.
Abigail Van Buren wrote “If you want your children to turn out well, spend twice as much time with them, and half as much money.” My sweet wife has always done just that … and it has been beautiful to behold. This photo was one of those moments.
Without trying to, my wife taught me by her quiet example that time and attention is the currency of love and the foundation of lasting relationships. I pray I never forget what she so gracefully taught me.
I love being a father because I have learned how to love --- I mean truly love. I also love being a father because I get to witness the beauty and power of motherhood. It simply has no equal.
I knew the Nerf battle was going to be short when Mitch closed his eyes, leaned toward the wall and put his frail hand out to keep from losing his balance. The war game Mitch organized had just started and my son asked to wear my paintball mask as part of his costume. Knowing his oxygen was low and breaths shallow I only let him put it on the moment we started and told him he could wear it for 30 seconds. The moment I saw Mitch close his eyes I took his mask off, kissed his forehead and whispered “Son, you are the strongest warrior I have ever known.” He whispered to me, “Dad, can I still play?” I told him he could and he smiled softly. Mitch hardly had the strength to lift his Nerf gun. Within a minute of that short exchange it was clear Mitch couldn't stand. The battle was over in less than two minutes.
Natalie scooped Mitch in her arms and whispered to him, “I love you” and carried him back to his room. The next morning Mitch would tell us in a slurry voice, “I don’t think I can survive.” My wife and I quietly wept tears from the deepest well of the soul. My son never left his room alive.
Within a few days of my son’s passing I received a private message from a military officer who wrote: “I've seen a lot of things in the past 54 months I've spent in Afghanistan as a Special Forces Green Beret, but nothing could have ever prepared me for what [I've seen on Mitchell’s Journey].” I wish Mitch could have seen what this military officer [and so many other uniformed officers] wrote about him. Mitch never thought himself as strong – but in things that mattered most, he was strongest. My son was so much stronger than me.
A board member of a company I run occasionally sent care packages to Mitch to let my son know he cared. Each time a box arrived it was addressed to “Man of Valor.” I couldn't help but get emotional each time I saw that. As I would bring each package to Mitch I would show him the label and describe what valor meant. Mitch would listen carefully to my words but I could tell he was confused why someone would say that about him. My son thought himself as ordinary, which made him all the more extraordinary.
Mitchell fought an implacable, mortal enemy – and though he died, he won the greater battle. My son, this two minute warrior, this little man of valor who fought bravely to live and love to the very end is my hero. The battlefield upon which we fought to keep Mitch alive is empty now and I can still hear the haunting echo of my son’s voice.
I thought death was hard, but I've come to learn grief is infinitely harder. But each day we are learning to rebuild our lives amid the rubble of broken hopes and dreams.
And so it goes, as one battle ends another begins … each day a battle of the heart, mind and soul in search of inner peace. I have discovered that inner peace is no trivial thing. Nations, civilizations, corporations, families and people are built or destroyed, sustained or compromised, by their relationship to inner peace.
Today I find myself on the battlefield of grief learning to fight an invisible war of loss and sorrow. My heart still trembles and soul shakes over the death of my son because he was so dear to me and I miss him greatly.
As I fight this battle of grief I have found inner peace because long ago I understood my core values, my priorities were clear, and I lived what I valued. I gave my son and family, who are most important to me, all that I knew to give. I didn't do it perfectly and I fall short daily – but I have never stopped trying or doing … and because of that I have found new armor, the armor of inner peace.
Last fall we took our kids to the same canyon we visited a year prior when we captured our last family portrait with Mitch. Only this time we carried with us the original painting my friend and talented artist Tyler Streeter created in honor of our fallen son.
My chest was heavy and my rib cage physically sore and fatigued from months of prolonged sorrow. Breathing seemed harder than normal this day.
We hiked along a trail that crossed some wetlands & a pond to the same location we took a photo of our kids when Mitch was with us. Ordinarily I don’t take portraits in part because I prefer capturing life unrehearsed but also because taking photos of young kids is about as easy as herding cats. But my kids have become accustom to me and my camera and they cooperate on the rare occasions I want a portrait style photo. This was one of those moments.
Last year I posted something that contemplated the economy of love and family. I wrote: “Love is such an interesting phenomenon. When we had our first child I thought to myself "I love this child so much, it is impossible for me to love another human more than this." In fact, I often wondered if I even had the capacity to love another person because the circumference of my love was bursting at the seams. Then, my second child arrived. I discovered that I didn't need to divide the love I felt for my first and share it with my second child. My love multiplied. And so it continued ... with each child my capacity to love increased exponentially. Oh, the arithmetic of family ... the arithmetic of God's plan.”
I love being a father. I have never in my life experienced more joy and more sorrow than I have from being a dad. And as impossibly difficult as it has been I wouldn't trade my life for anything. Through our joys and sorrows we grow. To what end, only God knows. But I have faith whatever burdens I am asked to bear will all make heavenly sense when looking back from over there.
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Painting by http://www.tylerstreeter.com/
Thank you Tyson Breckenridge & Tyler Streeter for reaching out and blessing our family with such a remarkable gift. We are forever in your debt.
It was nearly noon on a hot summer day and little tummies were beginning to rumble. Natalie had called the kids to eat some lunch she had earlier prepared but Mitch had one more adventure to take before he took a break. I can still hear the sound Mitchell’s tiny flat feet slapping the wet floor as he scuttled across the pool deck to the deep end. There was an adventure to take and he wasn't about to miss it.
Mitch was quite a swimmer when he was a wee child. He could also hold his breath longer than most and seemed to enjoy floating in the water face down. I once asked little Mitch why he liked to float face down and he looked at me and smiled, “It feels like I’m flying.” Many lifeguards confused Mitchell’s aqua-flying for drowning and nearly dove in to save him thinking he was in trouble. This young boy loved water in part because he loved to feel free.
Little Mitch nervously clung to the end of the handrail and peered over the edge of the diving board into the deep water just below his feet. Until this moment he had only known shallow pools, bathtubs and water in the safety of our arms. But the deep end was where the big people went and Mitch wanted to give it a try, all by himself. After a moment he let go of the handrail and slowly walked to the edge, then with a deep breath he jumped into the water.
I remember the first time I dove into the deep end. I was about the age of Mitch in this photo (~4 years old) … I can still feel traces of the panic that coursed through my body as I was swallowed up by the deep blue. Until this moment, like Mitch, water had been my gentle friend and playmate. But in an instant I realized how scary and unforgiving water can be. Suddenly I gained a new respect for water and for all things deep.
As my little boy paused a moment to consider what was before him I took this photo and marveled at his bravery. Then, within a few seconds, he had hurled himself into the deep and was out of sight. Little Mitch was so electrified by what he experienced he wanted to jump off the diving board again and again. Though he respected the danger of deep water he faced it and conquered his fear of it. Being physically weak he had every reason to retreat and find reasons not to do hard things. But he instinctively faced hard things with courage. And that courage rewarded him as he faced death, the deepest of human experience.
I remember being a little numb this day. The evening prior I had stayed up nearly the entire night at our kitchen table crying and reading books … lots of books. One of them “Realities in Coping with Progressive Neuromuscular Diseases” wasn't a book for parents, but physicians and primary care providers. It was brutal and factual – and while the book was dated and some thinking obsolete, it provided a desperately needed candor on the subject of my son’s disease. I was hungry to learn all that I could about DMD and didn't have time or the patience for soft descriptions and vagaries. I wanted to know what my son was dealing with – and I wanted it straight.
Like my son in this photo, I was holding on to anything I could as I peered nervously into the depths at my feet – only I couldn't see the bottom and everything was dark.
Later that evening, as I scanned my photos of the day I saw this image and committed it to canvas. I originally titled it “Taking Chances”. At the time courage to take a chance is what it symbolized to me. But today this image resembles so much more than that. It hangs in my home as a reminder that strength and courage are matters of the mind and soul more than the body and if my son can do hard things so can I.