When I took this photo, little Mitch and Ethan were racing down a slippy-slide on their tummies. I loved watching these little kids be kids.
At one point they decided to slide down together at the same time. When they reached the bottom they both sat up and laughed as only little boys know to do. Ethan then reached around his little brother and gave him a big hug. Mitch smiled and hugged him back, then a few seconds later kissed him on the cheek. I posted that photo some time ago.
As I watched these little brothers, my little boys, be good to each other my heart swelled with a love that was eternal – a kind of love that is not from this place. I don’t know what little Mitch was thinking at the moment of this photo, but I can’t help but wonder if he was learning love.
Mitch was a quiet, reflective thinker. His facial expressions often revealed he was thinking deeply on a topic. And his eyes … oh, his eyes … there were layers within layers. Sometimes, when we had father-son time, Mitch would share his observations (which were startlingly perceptive) about adults, peers and life in general. Though he wasn't a boy of many words, and his vocabulary was limited to that of a young child, he had moments where his words were deeper than deep.
There was one point in Mitchell’s young life, not too long before we discovered his heart was in trouble, he had an aide who was unkind to him. In fact, from what I can tell, she was rude and borderline abusive to him. It broke my heart to learn such things. When we learned of the trouble Mitch was having and the things she did and said, you can bet we intervened. To my dismay, this woman never owned up to her behavior and had a pocket-full of cheap excuses. She was reassigned. I was sad for her and confused why she would be unkind to a little boy who struggled in ways healthy children did not. As I struggled to understand why she was the way she was, I remembered the saying “those who hurt people, hurt.”
My point isn't to excite Mitchell’s Journey readers to anger that someone would be unkind to Mitch. Please, let that go. Instead, I want to draw focus to Mitchell’s response to those who were unkind to him. When I asked Mitch how he felt about things he said, “Dad, I just try to see with my heart.” I was taken aback by his statement and asked, “What do you mean, son?” Mitch replied, “When you see with your heart, you see everything that matters. She doesn't mean to be rude.” He didn't know what else to say or how to describe how he was feeling – but I could tell he had already forgiven the woman who was unkind. He saw more than I saw. He saw a soul in need of love and understanding. I remember crying when Mitch shared his thoughts of forgiveness and love. I said to my son, “Mitch, who were you before you came here?” I had the feeling his soul, wrapped inside that broken body, was much older than mine. With that, I kissed him on the forehead and we drove to an ice cream shop and talked about some upcoming movies he wanted to see.
When you see with your heart, you see everything that matters. Wow. I wasn't seeing with my heart, but instead my troubled mind. I was upset and, in truth, I had feelings of recrimination. But Mitch saw something different … he saw with his heart and that freed his heart from anger.
I have been hurt a time or two in my life. I know how intoxicating anger can be and the prison it can become. I also know when people do us wrong the very act of forgiveness might seem nearly impossible. But Mitch taught me how to see with my heart and remember that we all come from the same place and we all have the same Father.
Though we may be strangers in life, when we see with our heart we realize we are no different than these brothers in this photo. We are family ... a human family with a common spiritual source and we are here to learn love. When I remember that, when I see with my heart, I see everything that matters.
Every-so-often I drive by the mortuary and am reminded of the moment I saw little Mitch for the first time after he passed away. When we first entered the room we saw him lying on a table, lifeless and cold on the far end of a dimly lit room. The scene was something from a nightmare I was afraid to entertain, even in my mind. I struggled to find my breath as I swallowed the lump-turned-basketball in my throat. I stayed back so Natalie could have her time with Mitch – for I knew a mother’s love was sacred and different from mine.
When it was my turn to be with Mitch my heart tumbled into a deep abyss and it seemed for a moment my soul was certain to drown in the darkest waters. I wished so badly to wake my son that I might hold him and tell him I loved him – but he was gone. Tears streamed down my neck this day, and for many months after. I had just entered a phase of grief where I wept every single day for almost 2 years. I didn't cry. I wept.
So when I drive by that mortuary or simply reflect upon my own experience with loss I am reminded of the fragility of life. Not that we die – for I have seen plenty of death in my life and I don’t need to be reminded that life is perishable. Rather, I think about how easy it is to die a little on the inside, long before our bodies perish. We die from addiction and distraction, grief and anger, and a myriad of other things that would rob us; stuff that will take life away from life.
I don’t post on Mitchell’s Journey because I’m stuck in grief or that I fixate on death and sorrow. I am just trying to examine my life and discover ways to become truly alive.
I wish I could say I lived a life of no regret – but I haven’t. I don’t think it’s possible to live such a life because we are human and flawed. In fact, I am wary of the man or woman who says they lived a life of no regrets because such a tale is born of fiction and self-deception.
Regret is an unavoidable human condition. It is the wanting for a different outcome and the pain we cannot make it so. Regret is a measure of grief. It is part of grief. Regret is part of being human. Yet, I don’t believe, being human, the purpose of life is to cling to regret, guilt or self-loathing. Life is hard enough and I have come to believe it is well enough to do your best and forget the rest.
Do I wish I would have been different when Mitch was with me? Absolutely. Do I have regrets? I have many. But I am learning to forge those regrets in the fiery furnace of sorrow and build a new resolve that is sharper and stronger than I have ever known.
Each time I meditate and write about grief or an aspect of my son’s life and death, I am learning to trade regret for resolve.
One day, when I look back from that place beyond the hills, I know I will be glad I lived the life I lived. Not because I didn't make mistakes, but because I learned to turn regret into resolve. A resolve that is teaching me how to truly live. A resolve that is leading me home.
On those days I am especially weary in grief, stumbling over pebbles and struggling to breathe … I can hear a loving whisper, “Rise my son, for your time is not yet done. You aren't learning how to walk, but rather how to run.”
Remember the story I posted 2 weeks ago entitled MEATLOAF? Well, I just stumbled across this photo of my weary son savoring his first bite, then throwing his hand on top of my arm saying, “Dad, I just love meatloaf.” He wasn't eating much those days and this meal is what got him out of bed and offered much-needed nourishment. Nourishment that gave us more time.
That inspired act of goodness, that specific meal, offered by a woman who had no knowledge Mitch was sick and dying, is a tender mercy. An evidence of God’s love. I had no idea at the moment of this photo, the strong impressions she would receive that would lead to this very meal and how much it would mean to little Mitch. All I saw, from my limited and mortal perspective, was coincidence … even a little providence … but I had no knowledge of things as they truly were. I just knew was Mitch was grateful, and that made me happy.
It would take my wife and I almost 2 years to learn about the other side of this particular blessing. Learning of this experience has humbled me and I can't help but wonder how often I look at the proverbial table of my life and be tempted to think all that is before me ordinary. This experience reminds me how limited my sight is.
My eyes fill with tears of gratitude to know I have a Father (that WE have a Father) who cares enough about our lives to get involved in the little, seemingly ordinary things. I will spend the rest of my life thanking my Father for blessing my son this day, and every day. I am guilty of a lot of things – but I hope I am never guilty of ingratitude.
Any more, I pray that I might have eyes to see the many blessings so often blind to me. For if I had such eyes to see, I would certainly fall to my knees, humbled by the love He proffers me.
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For those who haven’t read it, here is the MEATLOAF post:
https://www.facebook.com/mitchellsjourney/photos/a.498931326803200.95172805.192859897410346/1060473063982354/?type=1&theater
Yesterday we took our kids to the same place near Park City where we went sledding with Mitch just before he was hospitalized from heart failure. This was his last outdoor activity in mortality and we wanted to do something as a family that honored what Mitchie loved to do. I loved to see my wife smile. Heaven knows how many tears she has shed, so my heart was lifted to see her enjoy time with our other kids.
While sledding, Natalie commented how the weather conditions were almost identical to the day we went with Mitch. After sledding we went to the same pizza place (www.thepie.com) and sat by the same fireplace as we did with Mitch. Wyatt stood diligently by the soda machine and mixed drink combinations like a chemist. Ethan and Laura-Ashley laughed as we talked about funny things. Natalie sat with her back to the fireplace with a warm smile on her face. My heart nearly burst.
When it comes to grief rituals, I have found it interesting how tracing our path with lost ones can bring some measure of comfort.
It was a hard yet wonderful day.
We want to thank all of you who reached out publicly, privately and personally to offer love and support during the last few days. This has been an especially tender weekend for our family and your love has been felt as well as heard. We read every single post and wish we could reply to everyone. I’ll do a better job at liking each post - if only to acknowledge we read what you wrote – however much I would like to respond personally to each comment.
Although we grieved the loss of our son, at the same time, we also recognized the many families we have come to know who have lost children or loved ones … and people who hurt deeply for any number of reasons. We cried not only for our loss, but for many of you, too. We mourned not only for our son, but for everyone that hurts – and we prayed that every weary heart might find rest.
Thank you … all of you, for remembering. Thank you for loving others more freely. Thank you for making this world a better place.