Every day before Mitch went to pre-school he would carefully fill his backpack with his favorite treasures of the day. I love how young children do that. On the top of his bag his sweet mother wrote his name with a symbol under each word: a star to let him know he was our shining little boy and a heart to remind him he was loved beyond measure.
I always enjoyed seeing what he was going to pack – for each day was different, each day unique. I often wondered what treasures he carried with him said about his state of mind. One thing is for sure, he was a tender, sweet child … as all children are. I miss him terribly.
My sweet wife would often place a secret note for Mitch and our other kids in their bags as they went to school. She wanted them to know that she loved them and thought of them always. And perhaps on a day that wasn't quite going right this little note would be a lifeline of love for a discouraged heart in a sea of trouble. As her husband I would occasionally see one of her thoughtful notes in my own bag, too, and it meant so much to me. And if that small gesture of love meant so much to me, I can only imagine what it meant to our kids. I love her for that.
I had just taken Mitch to work with me in the spring of 2006, around the same time I took this photo. Here is an excerpt from my journal:
“I've been blessed to take Mitch to work on occasion. Often he’ll sit with me at the conference room table while I’m meeting with employees & contractors. Sweet Mitch will quietly find himself coloring, playing with toys, and driving cars on my back and across my arms, or playing games by himself. He is such a sweet little boy.
I’m always surprised how considerate Mitch is of his surroundings and how careful he is to not be disruptive. I suppose from a distance keeping him at an office for hours at a time is not very fun. But Mitchie asks me if he can come … and he is so enthusiastic about it. Each time he comes to work with me I’ll bring a sleeping bag and pillow and we’ll make a comfy fort under the table – just like I would make as a young boy, but better. I’ll surround him with toys and things to do and kiss his sweet face as he wiggles himself into his comfy fortress with a smile. I have so much fun with him.
Sometimes I’m tempted to call all my meetings off and spend the entire day making forts and playing with toys. I am not convinced age will diminish my desire to become a kid again.
After my meetings I always take him to lunch and we talk about his favorite kitties and the blanket forts we’re going to make when we get home. I worry he’s growing up much too fast.”
Fast indeed.
Seven years would pass in a flash and this little boy would no longer be with us. As Mitch was collecting his childhood treasures through the years, as little children do, I was also collecting memories and experiences – for that is all we really carry with us in life, and beyond. At least they’re the things we carry with us that no economy or person can take away.
Like my son, I have a backpack of treasures I carry with me always, only it cannot be seen … and it is filled to the brim with love and treasured memories. Filled to overflowing.
When I was a young boy all I ever wanted was my parent’s approval. I wanted them to be proud of me, to show an interest in me and to give me enough time to know they cared. As long as I knew they loved me I felt like I could take on the world.
But the world wasn't always kind. I remember moving to Minnesota as a young child. It was my first winter and I was about 9 or 10. During recess a bunch of kids were sledding down an ice-packed hill in their snow pants. I didn't know anyone so I tried to jump in and do what everyone else was doing – hoping to make some friends. I remember being pushed over at the bottom of the icy hill by some boy who felt I didn't belong. As I tried to stand another boy pushed me back down. Within a minute I was surrounded and being kicked and spat upon by a mob of young men who didn't like me for some reason. I tried to crawl up the hill but kept sliding down the packed ice … back into their relentless kicks and a rainfall of saliva and swearwords.
I don’t remember who those boys were. Even were I asked to identify them at the time I couldn't because I covered my face so it wouldn't be kicked. Thankfully there was never a repeat of that experience. Those boys had their pound of flesh and I slipped back into anonymity. I remember how I felt on the bus ride home. My jacket and snow pants dirty from countless spits, I felt awkward and inside out. I was confused and ashamed. When I got home I quietly went to our laundry room and washed my jacket and pants with hot water and a rag, without my mom knowing what happened. I vowed that day, and every day thereafter, to be kind to others and to love those who were downtrodden. I wasn't angry or vengeful. I only wanted to love more.
Over the years I forgot about that experience but it forever changed me … and I tried to be kind to everyone. In the end, when we meet our Maker, nothing really counts if we’re unkind. I think many adults forget this. I know some powerful, successful men who beneath their chest thumping and lion-like roars are just insecure boys who never really grew up. They are worse than schoolyard bullies and have forgotten the life lessons we were taught in kindergarten and our childhood sandboxes. What do we really gain if we heap upon us riches at the cost of being good? What do we gain if we create cultures of fear and gossip? Nothing but a brittle and strenuous life … and that is no life at all.
I never wanted my son or other children to go anywhere without a sure knowledge we loved them – because I remembered how much that meant to me. Sweet Mitch was blessed with kind peers. I was so grateful he was never bullied at school or by neighborhood kids. In fact, he often had a gaggle of kids around him, helping him and cheering him on. And with the exception of one short-lived teacher aide a few years ago, who was unkind to him, he was blessed by some wonderful and loving adults that not only cared after him, but cared for him. My sweet boy really never felt alone. He felt loved, and for that I am so very grateful.
I loved seeing Mitchie at school. His face radiated love and my heart exploded every time I saw his smile. Mitch was always quick to do his homework – and because of his discipline, his life was a lot easier. While my other kids slogged about [as most kids do] and took hours doing what could have taken 30 minutes, sweet Mitch was done and playing long before anyone else.
We go to school to learn basic concepts and skills – but more importantly we go to school to learn how to learn. At least that’s how it should be … because learning how to learn is the ultimate knowledge. And once we learn how to learn we are equipped for life. There is no job, no assignment or obstacle, no opportunity or hardship we can’t figure out. It is a silly thing to think our learning stops when we graduate.
Life offers some hard lessons and we are sometimes given some difficult homework. Losing my son has been the most difficult work of all – and my pages are warped with salt and tears. But I keep working at it. Each day, as I go through the homework of grief I learn a quiet lesson here and a subtle teaching there. Each day is also a test to see if I've learned or grown. If I pass, I move toward the next question or phase of grief. If I fail, I keep working at it.
Life is a fascinating school. I hope I can be like my little son – who had the discipline to not avoid the hard stuff. I have come to learn that while we may not be able to control some events in our lives, we can control how we respond to them … what meaning they have for us. And that is homework, too.
I suspect at the twilight of my own life, when my body is tired, old and grey … when I am anxious to leave and see my long-lost son … I will look back on my own life and see an intricately woven tapestry of hardships, lessons, blessings and tender mercies – all designed to help my spirit grow. A master class. I will realize with new clarity that Mitchell’s Journey started long before he was born and that the events in our lives are more interconnected than we realize. But between now and that final sunset I have homework yet to do and the work of grief, however hard and crushing, I must go through.
I believe my little boy passed the test. I hope with all of my heart I can, too.
The morning after Mitchell was released from the hospital he wanted to play Minecraft. His hands, finally free of bandages, medical tape and IVs were able to do the things he loved. It felt like a dream state … my sweet son was home. My cup was full, and running over.
Eager to spend every waking moment with Mitch I sat with him and his friend Luke while the three of us, on separate computers, began to play in his digital sandbox.
Within about 20 minutes Mitch had carved out a fascinating labyrinth of halls, rooms and secret passages nestled deep in a mountainside. He had Luke and me building out rooms deep beneath the surface of the earth. I wanted to do a good job for him so I carefully carved out a mansion … I laid carpet, installed an indoor swimming pool, hung lights and more. I wanted to make a digital fort for my son that would be the dream of any boy. After a while I realized Mitch and Luke were no longer near me and for a moment I felt like a child accidentally left behind at the mall. The boy in me panicked because I wanted to be near my loved one. I searched for Mitch and couldn't find him and then realized he had gone to the surface with Luke to build something interesting.
I took a photo the moment I discovered what he had done.
Mitch and his friend created a large waterside that went down the side of a mountain (see left image). He then placed a raft at the top and rode down the artificial river as if it were a theme park attraction. Each time he would say aloud “Weeeeeeeee!” Mitchell had so much fun. I had even more fun watching him. My heart was full.
This was the last time Mitch played Minecraft on a computer. The rest of his gaming adventures would happen on an X-Box or his iPod. We were grateful that Mitch was able to play video games until the end. These games played a vital role in keeping his mind active, filled occasional voids and offered moments of escape while his body progressively shut down.
Today I roam his carefully crafted landscapes as if they were ancient Aztec ruins. I see the castles and fortresses he built with great care – each an expression of his creativity and mindset. It is haunting on some level because I often expect to see his avatar appear, like it did when we played together. But he is not there and never will be – at least the way he used to be.
These vast digital landscapes that contain my son’s creations are like modern-day archaeological finds. I have scarcely scratched the surface. There are courtyards, forts, secret caves, cities in the trees my son has created that have yet to be explored. Like an archaeologist that studies ancient ruins … searching for clues of a people long gone, I will search these maps out and discover breadcrumbs my son left behind. And I will wonder.
Technology presents a new and complex dimension to mourning. There are more than drawers, backpacks and closets to explore; there are now enormous digital places that consume no physical space. And unless we look carefully we may miss out on the digital breadcrumbs our loved ones leave behind.
Over the last few years my business partner (who has since become one of my best friends) and I would occasionally take our kids camping. Each location was radically different from one another – which made every excursion an uncharted adventure. From winter camping high in the mountains to settling deep in a canyon, our kids have experienced various types and places.
On one occasion I remember taking our kids to the west desert. The ground was barren and dry, almost post-apocalyptic. Aside from a highway far in the distance, almost completely out of view, there was nothing but the desert. Night was fast approaching as we started a campfire and noticed thunderstorms far in the horizon that almost completely surrounded us. The contrast in light and color was mesmerizing - with the clear sky above and the deep, shadow-filled blues in the distance. As the sun set Mitch and I sat in a chair and watched towering mountains of cloud explode with light. It was magical. I have photos of that trip and will post them some day.
On another occasion [as seen in this photo] we took our kids high into the Uinta mountain range. Clay (my friend) was also a scout leader and helped our boys fulfill some requirements for a merit badge. The trip was a triple-win.
There wasn't a cloud in sight and because we were far from city lights we could see far into the heavens at night. I loved camping with my little boys because it was just one more occasion to cuddle with all of them. Each time we went camping Mitch and I would whisper to each other as we gazed through the tent into the stars – and this trip was no exception.
The next morning we cleaned up camp and packed our cars when Clay suggested we play a game. The objective of this game was to line the kids up and have one child whose back was turned to everyone. While his/her back is turned the kids run toward the person (in this photo Mitch is the one whose back is turned). If he/she turns and sees someone moving, that person goes back to where they started. It’s terribly fun.
Each child took a turn and it was so rewarding to see them laugh and have fun together. When it was Mitchell’s turn I remember seeing this shy, quiet boy smile. I will never forget the look on his face. He belonged … and he loved it. This experience, this look on my son’s face has never been far from my mind and it has brought me so much happiness.
Belonging, when he felt so apart from everything, meant so much to my son. And because it meant so much to him, it meant just as much to me. To see Mitchie visibly happy, to feel like he belonged … my heart leapt for joy this day. And it leaps again today.
As a very young boy I remember hearing my parents tell me they were happiest when they saw me well and happy … when they saw me learn and grow. I often scratched my head in confusion – sometimes I wondered if they were on drugs. But I have come to learn my parents weren't crazy and the only drug they knew was love.
Being a father has taught me where my greatest joys are found … and they aren't found on the internet or in a store or a flashy box or sitting in a showroom for all to see. Real joy comes from those invisible moments [like this moment captured on camera] and those investments in time and attention with my family. Short of my relationship with God, I have known no greater joy. While my heart cries out with sorrow, it also shouts with happiness.
When I consider myself, a deeply flawed, imperfect father who stumbles again and again … yet I can find so much joy in the happiness in my children … how much more might our Father, who is perfect in every way, find joy in us, His children? Could it be that His happiness, too, is in seeing his Children well and growing? Indeed.
Suddenly, the great plan of happiness becomes a little clearer and a lot more personal.