A summer storm had just passed when we decided to take our kids park hopping. The air was crisp and clean, the grass still soft with rain. The magic of weather made the earth feel new again.
Mitch and my other boys were excited to play with some Styrofoam airplanes that I picked up from a local hobby shop. When thrown, these planes would circle back to you like a boomerang. They were fun to fly.
Fascinated, Mitch asked in his soft, tender tone, “Dad, how does that work?” I shared what little I knew about aerodynamics and Bernoulli's principle and tried to distill it into something a 9 year old might understand. “Mitch,” I said, “When you throw that plane you create pressure and force – which creates lift. This little airplane is designed to lift when it meets force and pressure.” Mitch tilted his head as though to ponder my words, then finally a look of understanding and insight came across his face.
At the same time in his life, I knew he was grappling with why he was getting weaker while many of his peers were getting stronger. So I took a moment to apply that same principle of lift to my boy. I said, “Son, I think our souls are much like this airplane. Our souls are designed to lift when it meets pressure – you know, when it meets hard things. You, little Mitch, are meant to fly.”
With that, I kissed his forehead like I so often did, and he went about his childhood adventure. With each determined throw I could see Mitch studying the flight path of this little airplane. Every time it took flight, it seemed as though he was internalizing my words and how they applied to him. I had spoken enough to Mitch about the nature of the human soul and the purpose of life that he knew what I was talking about. There was an intensity to Mitch that was unique that day. An intensity of study I won’t likely forget.
Among the many tragedies of my son’s passing was the fact he loved life so much. He loved every minute of it and there wasn't a moment he wasted. For little Mitch, each day was an act of deliberate living. Even when his body was shutting down, he would awake only to realize with great disappointment he lost hours of his life to sleep. This little boy clung to life like a drowning man to a life preserver deep at sea.
I have known no greater pain than the loss of my son. The force and pressure of grief is that of a hurricane seen only on Jupiter. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if the tempest of my own grief and sorrow are a form of spiritual force and pressure, creating lift to my weary soul. Though I would rather not be about this journey, I have no choice in the matter. I can choose to steer upward or spiral to the ground … the choice is entirely mine, I have found.
I have come to realize a relationship between pain and progress. Our souls are meant to struggle – for in that heavenly pressure creates lift. Though agonizing now, one day we’ll look back and be grateful for it.
I can almost hear a whisper from our Father, “Don’t be discouraged, my child – for your soul was meant to fly. And that cannot happen without pressure or standing idly by.”
It is interesting how grief is made easier when you set aside your own sorrows to help another. Somehow, some way, it hurts a little less. Oh, don't get me wrong; grief is the heaviest burden I know ... it wrenches soul, springs the deepest of tears and makes for the blackest of nights - but I have found service is a candle in all that darkness. Though I weep for Mitch, my heart is full to think that others may be helped a little. Though grief isn't gone, it is a little easier to bear.
We're learning as we go. Though, early on, just after my son's passing, I had high hopes to do more and raise money for this cause faster. What I had hoped to happen didn't. I think my Father is teaching me something ... and I'm trying to listen. In the meantime, we won't stop trying to find our path and help others along the way.
Natalie's heart was so full this morning. She cries quietly every day for Mitch - so I was glad to see her find joy in serving others. Seen also in this photo [on the right] are two of Natalie's dearest friends who have been an integral part of our charity run. We owe them, and our other committee members, a debt of gratitude.
We're excited to make our first announcement that we will be supporting MDA of Utah's Summer Camp this year. Because of your generous donations and involvement with Miles for Mitchell, we were able to donate $2,000 to MDA of Utah this year so young children can go swimming and fishing (two of Mitchie's favorite things to do).
While it may not sound like much, these boys don't have much time to be children. Before they know it, these young boys (and some girls) will find themselves unable to walk, use their arms or neck and will find their world of possibilities rapidly shrinking.
While others organizations are racing to find a cure (which we fully support), we are racing to give these children a life before it gets taken away.
We hope that the children who attend this year's activity will have warm memories to lift their hearts when life gets difficult for them.
We'll be announcing more of what we're doing this year with the proceeds of the run to help Parent Project MD and other DMD families in the coming weeks.
Because your involvement has empowered us to help others, you have helped in our own grieving process - because as we serve, we heal. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you for loving. Thank you for caring.
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When Mitch was a tiny boy he would sit on my shoulders and peer over our backyard fence so he could wave to his older sister as she walked to elementary school. He would get so excited that he would bounce up and down on my shoulders and grab my hair is if it were reigns to a horse. Though the act of pulling my hair often hurt, I gladly endured it because I knew my little boy was happy - and that made me happy.
Curious to see what Mitchie saw, one day I grabbed a picnic bench and placed it against the fence so I could experience a little of my son's perspective. As soon as Laura-Ashley came around the corner with her cute little pigtails and pink jeans, Mitchie bounced and yelled out, "Hi Ashie! I wuv you!" My daughter smiled and kindly waved at her baby brother. My heart burst with love and gratitude. And though our young family struggled to make ends meet, I was the richest man on earth.
I remember driving to the cemetery after work one day only to find my sweet wife knelt quietly at the head of my son’s place of rest. The grass was still mending from the funeral and you could see the painful outline of where exactly he was buried. I never imagined grass could be so brutal.
“My dear wife, you precious mother … I love you more than any other. Yes, I love our children as much, too … for they came to life from me and you. But, my love, you are where it started: my heart, my life, and our son departed. My dear wife, you precious mother … because of you, Mitch was blessed above all others.”
I reverently approached my best friend but gave her space – for I saw her suffering an agony only a mother who’s lost a child can know. While I carry a father’s sorrow, which is heavier than anything I have ever known, I reverence my wife’s grief differently than my own.
Mitch had such a tender relationship with his mom. He often called her “Mommy-Lommie” as a term of endearment. He would always tell me how he thought his mother was the kindest, most beautiful lady on earth. “Don’t you just love Mommy?” Mitch would say with great feeling.
I have tender photos that I’ll share at a later time that show his sweet expression whenever Mitch was in her arms. This little boy loved his mom. And she loved him.
Mother’s day is around the corner and I can’t help but turn my heart to my dear wife. I struggle to know what I might do to show her how much I love and honor her. Everything I can think of falls short of what I feel. I know the gift she really wants I cannot give. Though I would gladly take my son’s place, I cannot. How that pains me so.
Our grief journey so far has been more complex than I ever imagined. Perhaps that is one of the reasons grief is so difficult to process … precisely because it is so complex. If it were simple, it might be easier. But it is not simple: grief is a tangled web of wanting, longing and loving something you can no longer hold. It is a briar patch of self-doubt, what if’s, and wonderings. It is the isolation of being misunderstood or simply not understood. It is learning to breathe in an emptiness that suffocates.
As difficult as it’s been, grief has also been a beautiful teacher. It has taught me how to be more compassionate and patient. It has taught me to better appreciate light – having experienced pitch darkness. Grief has taught me how to talk to my Father as a child might talk to a parent. Most beautiful of all is seeing those I love discover heavenly gems.
It wasn't long ago I was asked to speak to a group of women about the extraordinary influence they can have in the lives of others. The night before I was to speak to this group Natalie and I were talking about our journey so far. She looked me in the eyes and said, “Chris, I remember feeling betrayed and saying to God, ‘I tried to do everything you asked and THIS is what I get?’” Natalie paused a moment, with tears in her eyes she continued, “Then it occurred to me: this is my price to know God.” Tears filled my eyes and my heart filled with peace as I felt the truth of her words.
I have marveled at the transformation I have seen in my wife over the last 2 years. I can see the hand of God shaping her, tenderly and sometimes painfully, into something beautiful, not bitter. Yes, her heart is broken and tender – but it has become wiser and more caring. Through her suffering, she has come to know her Father in deeper ways.
My dear wife, you precious mother … I love you more than any other. Yes, I love our children as much, too … for they came to life from me and you. But, my love, you are where it started: my heart, my life, and our son departed. My dear wife, you precious mother … because of you, Mitch was blessed above all others.