During his final days there were times I couldn't tell whether I was talking to my 10 year old son or a soul that was older than the universe itself. I saw it with my own eyes and felt it in the depths of my soul; something significant was happening. Although my young son was dying, his true identity was emerging and I sensed he was much older than I knew. I realized death wasn't the end ... but it was a painful goodbye, even if for now. Reunion may as well be forever away. For my heart aches and yearns to have him back with me – the way he used to be. That is grief.
As death inched closer the veil between this place and over there became increasingly thin. Those who came to visit said they felt a strong presence in our home. Natalie and I didn't always feel what they felt – we were probably too close to recognize it. Perhaps, also, we were in too much pain. Yet, in our closeness to this sorrow, we saw things others couldn't. Some things I will never share, for they are too sacred. Sometimes I wonder what it would look like were we allowed to see all that is truly happening. Perhaps we might be startled to see all the hands unseen that carry us in ways we do not now appreciate or feel.
There was a point when Mitch asked me, “Dad, is there any other way?” I held my son quietly and I wept. Countless were the nights I begged God for a way out. I pleaded for mercy. I begged for my son. As his father I would have traded places with him without a moment’s thought. I asked God, “Is there any other way?” As I tried to listen to my Father, I was reminded of another One who asked for a bitter cup to pass. Not even He was spared.
There is a saying that reads, “Most people wish to serve God – but only in an advisory capacity.” How oft have I been tempted to think my finite mind knows better than my infinite Father’s? So many times my heart cried out, “Please, not this. Anything but this.” I begged God for another way as though I might devise a better plan. Yet I know I cannot see what He sees … and I am reminded we are not mortal beings having a spiritual experience, but “spiritual beings having a mortal experience.” (Pierre Teilhard de Chardin)
I don’t know much. But what I do know is this mortal life is a place to learn and grow under the tutelage of a Divine Teacher; a place where we learn how to see in the dark and hear the voice of God in our own wilderness. I can see that now. I understand there is no other way.
Yet, here I am talking of pain and suffering as a divine tutor … and I find myself on my knees, drenched in tears, begging for relief, scarcely able to bear the weight of this sorrow. Then a whisper, “There is no other way. Be patient, my son, for you will see more tomorrow.”
There is no other way.
Two months ago Wyatt and I went to the top of our property that overlooks the valley and watched an incoming storm crawl across the sky. Mitch loved storm watching and Wyatt thought it would be fun to do what Mitchie loved as a way of honoring him.
As I stood behind my youngest son I couldn't help but feel after him –for I could tell he was trying to sort out the loss of his brother. I know Wyatt hurts, too. So, each day I make a special effort to love him a little extra, to help him feel that I understand and that I care about his feelings. I want my young son to know it’s okay to hurt.
Watching Wyatt I was reminded of an essay I wrote last June entitled “Walking on Jupiter.” I wrote, “There are days, sometimes agonizing moments, the gravity of grief is so great it feels like I’m walking on Jupiter. It’s a place where your chest feels so heavy even breathing is difficult. I have come to learn that once you lose a child you leave earth’s gravity forever. You may visit earth from time-to-time, but Jupiter is where your heart is. And from what I can tell, we will live the remainder of our lives in the gravity well of grief.”
In that same essay on grief I wrote the day Mitchell died “was the day my wife and I left Earth and took up residence in an unfamiliar place. That was the day our world changed.” At this moment with my son I recognized the world was still changed – the world we once knew was no longer.
It has been almost a year since I wrote “Walking on Jupiter”. To my surprise, I have made a journey from Jupiter. It is no longer home, although grief requires me to visit there often. Earth is still a great ways off and I don’t know that I’ll ever really live there again, either.
Earth is closer than it has ever been. I can live with that.
And should I live out my days marooned in some place between the punishing gravity of grief and the near weightlessness I knew before – I will count myself blessed.
When my kids were especially little I started a game called “Gut Busters” – which was basically human bumper cars. The title of this game became something of a metaphor for the participant and observer – whether through smashing or laughing, it was a gut-busting experience. This idea isn't new – but to my kids it was –and that was all that really mattered. We would stuff pillows from the couch in their pajamas and they would run into each other and fall to the floor. Everyone would giggle and laugh and it was a great way to get their wiggles out before they went to sleep.
It was the evening of my birthday (2007) when these sweet boys wanted to have an honorary smash-up-derby. I’ll never forget how much Wyatt looked like SpongeBob, how energetically Ethan flexed his little chicken wings, and how precious Mitch, who always felt physically awkward, pointed his finger in the air meaning to do a thumbs up. Mitch wanted to be strong and powerful like his brothers – but in the end, his life traded physical power for a power of a different kind.
A few weeks prior to this moment with my boys, I stumbled into something songwriter Guy Lombardo said, “Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think.” For some reason, that quote pressed against me like a cold breeze and I couldn't shake the feeling the hour was later than I knew. Yet, there was no indication Mitch was in any trouble of any kind. For my son death would surely visit – but it wasn't supposed to happen for another 20 years. It would only be 5 years from this photo before we would learn Mitchell’s heart was beginning to fail. Less than 6 years before the end.
Not knowing the perils ahead, we took heed to those quiet whispers that told us the hour was later than we knew. Though my heart cries out today over the death of my son and I am very much pained therewith, I am grateful we responded to those whispers and drank in the moments the best we knew how.
Do I have regrets for time poorly spent? Absolutely. But mistakes are part of our human experience. I carry regret the same way I might walk away from a conversation saying to myself, palm to forehead, “Oh, I should have thought to say ____.” I don’t carry regret as a burden or an instrument to lash self-punishment. Rather, my regrets serve as a reminder to do better next time.
Were I to live out my days in regret for the things I could have (or should have) done better, I would not have the presence of mind to enjoy life. Though I carry the weight of grief and sorrow over the loss of my son, a weight so heavy I can scarcely shoulder, I have 3 other children whom I love just as much. And I will enjoy my time with them while they are with me. Because, even still, the hour is later than I think.
This was Mitchell’s last time at his grandmothers – the place, other than home, he loved to be above all others. I’m not sure if it was the chocolate cake from Costco she would get especially for him, or the small 4-wheelers he could ride into the woods, or if it was the escape from life as he knew it, maybe it was the unbridled love he received – but whatever it was, he wanted to be there.
As we stood at the door and said goodbye my mother reached behind Mitch, who is as shy as he is sweet, and kissed his cheek. I could tell Mitch felt so good inside. I think everybody deserves to feel good inside.
I captured this tender moment with my phone. As we left her place there was a certain heaviness in my heart. I didn’t know where my feelings were coming from – I just sensed something was happening. Something significant. As we drove away I struggled to swallow the lump in my throat. Had I known this was his last trip there, I would have begged to stay another day or two. My mother said after we left she just sat on the floor and wept. Perhaps her soul, not knowing the end was coming, was being prepared for this loss.
It was the last few days of November and the Christmas holidays were just around the corner. I could tell Mitch was excited to see what Santa would bring –but he was even more excited about the gifts he was going to give everyone else. Mitch always gave to others freely. I think deep inside he felt no matter how much he gave, he always got more in return.
Even when Mitch was home on hospice, he spent his hard-saved money on a collection of Warheads (very sour candy) and gave them away. I remember sitting with him on the edge of his bed as he separated the flavors. He softly pointed to the blue raspberry ones and said almost in a whisper, struggling to breathe, “These ones are rare. They’re my favorite.” He then grabbed my hand and put the precious 3 candies in my palm, then closed my fingers and pushed my hand back to me. I said to him, “Oh, no Mitchie, these are yours. You keep them because I know you love them.” As I reached to give them back he pushed my hand back to me with a gentle smile and said, “No, you keep them. And I want you to eat one right now.” My heart sank a little because I wanted him to have his favorite treats, but I realized in that moment that letting Mitch give was the gift he really wanted.
So, I opened one quickly and put it in my mouth. Mitch began to smile and giggle as I puckered and writhed over the intense sour candy that was destroying my taste buds. Mitch finally burst out in laughter as he saw me cry out “I can’t take it!” For Mitch, giving was a win to him. And seeing me almost gag over the super-sour candy was a second win that paid dividends of giggles and laughter.
I still have those other two candies in a special box that contains treasures from Mitch.
Mitch reminds me daily what it means to win. Sometimes life gives us double-wins when everything turns out as planned. Other times we do our best and appear to fail; but if we are honest and do our best we have already won, regardless of the outcome. What is winning, really? It is doing the right thing – no matter the cost. Mitch always did the right thing. And more often than not, he won twice.
With all his double-wins, my little boy lost his battle with life … yet he won his soul by the way he lived it. And, by the grace of God, while I stumble and fall a million times as I chase after my son, I hope to hold him once more. I hope to look into his innocent eyes and thank him for helping me understand to do good and be good is what it means to truly win.