The year after Mitch passed away my aunt and mother came to visit our home. We love having visitors – and enjoying their company that day was a treat. In many ways, my aunt is like a second mother to me and I love her dearly. She is currently in the final stage of her battle with cancer. I pray for her every single night and count myself blessed to be part of her family.
When I was much younger I remember my aunt visiting our home. At one point we started playing some word game around the kitchen table; a moment that I treasure to this day. It wasn’t long ago she shared her memory of that night some 27 years ago … when I conjured up a funny definition to a word. While playing the game, she presented an obscure word for which I then had to come up with a definition. I didn’t know what the word meant so I said “the irresistible urge to saddle a horse.” My family comes from strong cowboy stock, so she laughed and laughed at my silly definition. When she reminded me of that moment we both laughed again, all these years later.
It’s the little things. It’s always the little things.
So on this beautiful spring afternoon their visit may have seemed little to them, but it was big to me. I was at an especially tender time in my life – learning to live without my son – and their company and smiles seemed to lighten the weight of grief. How I needed that relief.
My heart was full that day – because I was able to reflect on some good moments from a time long gone. I also gained a deeper appreciation for all that I had in the moment.
As my mother and aunt began to walk down my driveway, I took a photo of these two beautiful souls, sisters joined in arms. As they carefully made their descent my mind flooded with memories of Mitch on this same slope. In my mind, I could almost see visions of Mitch laughing as he drove his scooter down at reckless speeds … or the snow blowing across the way as he slid down the snow-packed concrete.
One place, so many memories … and here, for good measure, was yet another memory to keep and treasure.
Raising little Mitch taught me that if I look for beauty, I will find it. Well, I found something beautiful that day and my heart was overflowing with love and gratitude for these two good souls who helped shape me in their own special ways.
Today I will look for beauty. When I find beauty my grief turns into gratitude … and that is a good thing.
Mitchell’s cardiologist placed a stethoscope gently on his chest. Suddenly he closed his eyes and disappeared into a state of deep meditation as he listened closely to the fumbling, tumbling sounds of our little boy’s failing heart. There wasn’t much time left and this doctor knew it. Unaware of his fate, little Mitch just wanted to go home. At the end of the day, I believe that’s where our heart yearns to go. Home. Back to that time and place where we felt safe and surrounded by the ones we love.
Just a few days prior this same cardiologist, fighting back his tears, told us our son only had days to live. This good man spoke to us as a medical professional first and as a father second. The doctor in him told us the medical truth bravely and unfiltered – which we wanted and desperately needed. The father in him told us what he would do if he were in our situation. As far as I’m concerned, he practiced perfect medicine – for he was professional and human.
I cannot get this image out of my mind. I have many such photos of this doctor performing this same act of listening to my son’s heart – each time with the same degree of intensity.
In this image is a metaphor that I can’t put away. Little Mitch once said to me while dealing with a hard thing someone had done to him, “Dad, if you see with your heart, you see everything that matters.” Mitch instinctively knew that old adage “hurt people, hurt people.” Someone was mean to him, yet he didn’t see a mean person, he just saw a good person who was broken and hurting on the inside. Listening to the heart and soul sometimes takes just as much focus and intent as this good doctor applied to my son’s physical heart.
I don’t know that I’ve ever shared this, but my son was named after a dear friend of mine who unexpectedly passed away several years ago. One night, over 20 years ago, my friend and I were in the heart of Kentucky. I remember that night like it was yesterday … the sky was clear, the stars were bright and there were fireflies nearby. We were talking about things that changed us from the inside out. We were only 19 and 20 at the time, but we had already experienced a change of heart that was significant and we were sharing our experiences. He shared with me something that changed everything for him. In high school he was rebellious and did everything his parents told him not to. One night, well after midnight, he smashed through the front door drunk, high, and belligerent. He then passed out and fell down the stairs and on to the basement floor. The next thing he remembered was his father holding him at the foot of the steps, weeping and telling his son how much he loved him. It was his father’s act of love and compassion that changed my friend for good. When Mitch told me this story, we both wept and discovered a spiritual truth.
Over the years, time and circumstance created distance between us. We attended different universities and our lives did as they must … go on. But I never forgot my friend. So, on that fateful day my wife and I had our 3rd child, we named him Mitch because of what this good man taught me about love and compassion. I finally reconnected with my friend a few years before he passed and told him how we named our son after him. He was humble and kind and I was reminded of the kind of person I hope to be.
I wonder how the world might change if everyone started to see and listen with their hearts. That’s not to say we become illogical and foolish, driven to-and-fro solely by emotions; but how might things change in our own lives if we truly listened to the intent of others? I can say with confidence that almost every single conflict I have been a part of stemmed from a misunderstanding of the heart. Most people aren’t bad, they’re just a little broken and don’t know what to do with their jagged pieces.
It is my experience that people change because they are loved, not because they are shamed. I hope to follow my son’s example and see (and listen) with my heart – for when I do, I see everything that matters.
That’s what Mitch taught me … at the heart of things is everything.
The warmth of the evening sun wrapped our bodies like a thick quilt. Tiny Mitch stumbled to the ground, scraped his knee badly and it began to bleed. Immediately he picked himself up from the sidewalk and ran to his mother’s arms for comfort. Mitch had just been diagnosed with DMD and suddenly all of his trips, stumbles and spills began to make sense. His little legs, although they looked healthy, were already demonstrating signs of catastrophic muscle wasting.
I’ll never forget how tiny Mitch snuggled into his mother’s arms, holding his baby Nerf football. He cried little and wished he didn’t hurt. Mitchie just wanted to run and play with the strength of healthy kids – but hard falls and bruised knees were what he came to know all-too-well. My angelic wife held our baby boy with love in her arms and healing in her wings. She couldn’t take the scrapes and bruises away, but she could carry his heartache and wipe his little tears – and that seemed to make everything okay again. Euripides was on to something when he said, “Oh, what a power is motherhood …” , for I have seen the nurturing power of motherhood with my own eyes.
I remember taking this photo and falling in love with this moment; not because my son was hurt but because love was made visible. It was brighter than the evening sun and warmed my soul from the inside out.
Natalie has always had a quiet dignity about her and never shared her love to get attention or accolades. Instead, she has lived a life of hushed service and deep love for others. Wherever she goes her love is made visible – not from dancing and prancing across the stage of life, but in quietly lifting people from dark corners and loving those who feel faceless, lost in a crowd of people. She has always served people in that way and it is as natural to her as breathing is to me.
So, when Mitch was on the edge of death, scared and wanting so much to live, I saw my angelic wife comfort our son in this same way; wings stretched wide and arms filled with love. She sat quietly at his bedside, holding his hand and whispering words of comfort as he slowly slipped away. Something deep within me tells me Mitch experienced that same comfort from his mother’s love as he did on this warm summer day. She couldn’t heal his fluttering heart, but she could stand beside him and wipe his tears and assure him everything would be okay – even though she knew she wouldn’t be okay. That is the power of motherhood.
When I think back on life’s most profound and healing moments, love has always been present. Love has always been visible. In ways I never imagined, I’ve discovered if I love and serve others, the shadows of grief are kept small. If I withhold the light of love, the shadows overtake me and I get lost in grief.
Natalie and little Mitch showed me what it means to have their love made visible. They showed me that it isn’t enough to think or feel love … but we must show it in our every word and deed; and when the light of our love is made visible, we begin to heal at great speed.
Why do we wait for people to die to say nice things about them? What if that kind word spoken at a eulogy might have made a difference to them when they were living? Whenever possible & appropriate, I try to speak the words I might say at someone’s eulogy, were I asked to speak, so that person might absolutely know how I feel about them and why I look up to him/her. My greatest hope is that those shared thoughts and feelings might help them while they’re living, for a compliment at a funeral does far less good than a compliment in life.
So, because I don’t wait for birthdays, anniversaries or funerals to say kind things … I am not as keen on anniversaries as every day is a celebration of who and what I love. Strangely, my heart weighs heavy this day, the 3rd anniversary of my son’s funeral. I remember how difficult it was to speak … I almost threw up that morning and I, a grown man, wept like a small child just before the funeral director closed my son’s casket for the last time.
Months later I remember watching my dear wife, who knelt reverently by our son’s place of rest, lean over to touch his headstone – almost in disbelief. Natalie tried so hard to love and nurture Mitch while he was alive. Like me, she thought we had more time. As hard as everything was up to that point, we didn’t realize the hardest parts of grief were yet to come. How exquisitely hard we couldn’t imagine.
At least to me, Mitchell’s Journey is as much about the examined life as it is musings on love and grief. I have endured deep suffering over the loss of my child and have come to understand not one of us will be spared hardship and sorrow. At some point in our lives, we will all suffer and drink from bitter cups; we will all weep and gather up our broken pieces … and sometimes we might wonder why the heavens suddenly seem so dark. Only then will we begin to see the stars: tender mercies that can only be discerned in and through the darkness – whose subtle light will eventually illuminate the path and lead our souls out of the dark. Perhaps we would all be fortunate as to have great suffering happen earlier in our lives rather than later … for then we might love strangers more readily, empathize with those who hurt more freely, and help our neighbors with glad hearts. The world needs a lot more of that stuff.
I am still learning how to grieve, yet I marvel at those who are fortunate enough to have not lost a child; they who sit comfortably, incredulously, from the comfort of their observation deck and suggest it is time to stop hurting, because they themselves don’t hurt. Such an assertion is as silly and insensitive as if I were to tell a parent to abandon their love for their living child, simply because I don’t share their personal attachment. Sometimes it is the lack of empathy from others that can make the grief journey seem so long and lonely.
It is not my place, nor any of my business, to know where people are in their grief journey. I have learned to respect the empty space between a parent and lost child as hallowed ground. To observe a sufferer in grief is to watch someone in their own Gethsemane and we would do well to reverence our criticisms and thank God we are not suffering in the same way. And if we are fortunate to have suffered such a loss, we might reach out and lift those heavy hands with love and understanding – for empathy has the power to heal.
At least for me, I measure my own healing by a few examinations:
1) What have I learned from my sorrows?
2) How have I changed?
3) What meaning has this experience had in my life?
4) Have I drawn closer to my Father?
If my answers shed light in the darkness, then I know I’m growing. If I don’t know the answer, then I need to search more.
I promise to not always write about sad things, but for now I still feel sad things … and this is my therapy.
Yet, despite my sorrows today, my heart is glad in knowing my sweet wife always built our son up with kind words, loving encouragement and sound council. She offered our son a living eulogy; Mitch didn’t need to die before nice things were said to and about him. Our little boy never went a day where Natalie didn’t help him feel good about himself. ... where he didn’t know he was loved by a mother who was an angel made mortal.