View fullsize

I love this idea, but it isn't mine. I saw something like it a while ago on Pinterest and have no idea as to its true origin. But I was so moved by it I decided to create one of my own, and then added the third step. 

I loved this idea because it reminded me of my sweet wife, her endless selflessness and how she set a standard of goodness for our family to follow. It also reminds me that many of my own troubles can be avoided or solved when I turn me to we. 

No matter how perilous or dark the path, Mitch never felt alone because my wife always turned me to we. Even in her darkest hours as she suffered and made heavenly pleas, I watched her in awe, and fell to my knees.

View fullsize

Excerpt from my March 7, 2013 post “Fingerprints on the Wall”:

“There is a poem I have long admired that reads: “It will be gone before you know it. The fingerprints on the wall appear higher and higher. Then suddenly they disappear.” 

While Mitchell’s fingerprints on the walls of our home may disappear, he has left an indelible fingerprint on the walls of my soul. In life, he taught me how to love deeply, how to laugh loudly, and how to play freely. In death, he taught me how precious and fleeting time really is. He helped me understand with great clarity time is finite and perishable. 

It is safe to say we are prepared for [the funeral] … except saying our final goodbye ... goodbye to the fingerprints on the wall. 

But alas, his fingerprints, the ones that matter ... remain.

View fullsize

Last summer a client who has since become a friend of mine handed me a small silver box. We were sitting in his office when he handed it to me as tears gently filled his eyes. Tears filled my eyes, too. At some point during Mitchell’s viewing he asked for permission to take my son’s fingerprint because he had a gift in mind for my family. So much was happening I had all but forgotten about his request.

I remember the mounting panic I felt when the funeral director said they were going to shut Mitchell’s casket for the last time and asked us to say our final goodbyes. I draped over my son’s cold body and wept. Even though I knew he was gone, I didn't want him to be … and I wasn't ready for the finality of it all. At the time I didn't realize my sobs were audible even though they were quiet as a whisper – and frankly I hadn't cried like that since I was a young child. The viewing room, filled with the noise and chatter of 80 family members was suddenly hushed. Unaware that my faint whimpers had put in motion I soon realized the room was completely silent. I had never witnessed such reverence. I hope to never see such reverence again ... at least not on my family's behalf.

So as my friend handed me this silver box my mind went back to that day when I, a grown man, was reduced to rubble. My hands began to shake as I remembered he’d done something special. Part of me was afraid to see what it was. As I carefully pulled the ribbons back he told me that a few others from his office (who have also become dear friends of mine) pitched in to pay for this most unique memorial of my son. I was humbled and grateful.

As I peered into the box I discovered some small metal medallions each bearing Mitchell’s tender fingerprint. Evidence my son lived. My friend said this gift was inspired by an essay I wrote entitled “Fingerprints on the Wall” … and that this gift is a reminder that while Mitchell’s fingerprints may no longer grace the walls of my home, they will forever be etched in my heart.

Later that evening I took my family to the cemetery and we sat on the cool grass and talked about Mitch a while. We laughed and cried and each expressed how grateful we were to have him in our lives. Soon everyone became quiet and thoughtful – our hearts lay low because we missed our son and brother. I then placed this silver box on the grass and described to my wife and kids we each received a special gift in honor of Mitch. I could see in their faces a sorrow that was as unique as their very person. Ethan misses Mitch differently than Wyatt or Laura-Ashley. Natalie and I miss our son in ways that are as unique as our relationship with him. I have come to understand there are some feelings that defy description – and grief is one of them.

As I opened this box once again my hands trembled a moment but then became steady. They trembled at first because I was a father in pain, but they became steady because I was also a father who loved his family. 

As my wife and children carefully examined their gifts, each deeply touched, I was grateful for my loving, compassionate friends who wanted us to know they cared … and gave us something to remember. And my son and the lessons on love and faith he taught me are gifts I shall long remember and hold close to my heart.

View fullsize

The last week has been a uniquely dark time in my life … nothing compared to the darkness of losing my son – but dark and difficult nonetheless.

A few evenings ago I took my 8 year old son to run some errands. It’s hard sometimes, but I do all that I can to be in the moment and not allow myself to be distracted by the million-and-one things that tug at my mind and attention. My heart was heavy this night and I was tempted to be whisked away in thought and concern. But then I remembered what a wise man once taught me [paraphrased]: “If you’re with someone … be with them. When you’re greeting someone and shaking their hand, give them all of you – even if only for 15 seconds … don’t shake their hand and look to the next person or thing … give them everything.” So, even though my heart was low, I put it in my back pocket and gave Wyatt everything I knew to give. I wanted him to know he mattered to me and that I loved him – and the best way to do that was to give him all of me.

The winter sky was getting dark and it felt like an ordinary evening. We were driving to a neighboring town when we discovered behind the hills was a sight we would have missed had we not been in motion. [I think there’s a life lesson in that.] As we left our neighborhood Wyatt and I saw the most peculiar sunset. Wyatt said, “Hey Dad,” pointing to the sky, “that reminds me of Mitchie.” I didn't have my tripod or big camera with me but I pulled over and tried to capture what we saw with my iPhone. Mitch used to do the same thing with his iTouch whenever he saw something beautiful. My phone didn't capture the sky the way we saw it so I adjusted the colors and values to match what we saw with our own eyes as best as possible. The way the sunset shone on just a small part of the mountain was one of those once-in-a-lifetime visions of beauty. I don’t know if I’ll ever see such a sight again in my lifetime.

Mitchie loves sunsets and would have been mesmerized by what we saw. No matter where I am I carry with me the memory of my son. If there is a gap in my thoughts, Mitch fills it to over flowing. Seeing this sky did just that.

I have often made references to that place beyond the hills where my son now lives. I want to be there, with him. But I also want to be here with my family. Grief, it seems, more and more has become a painful tug of war. Seeing this sunset reminded me that every so often I sense a light from beyond the hills – a glimpse that all is right. And if I’m patient and I keep trying perhaps the storm in my heart may soon find rest. And peace and rest are more likely to come when I do my best.