When Mitch was a small child he always stuffed in his pockets two toys – one was a figure of a little boy with a ball cap and backpack and the other was a man wearing a hard hat and work clothes. To baby Mitch, this was a symbol of him and me. For a season he never went anywhere without them and I have taken many photos of him kissing this miniature daddy with his tender little lips. Whenever he kissed this little dad I would quickly snatch his little guy and kiss it with the same tenderness he did mine. We would both smile and giggle and then he would reach to me and give me a big real-life hug and kiss. Those are the best. My heart would melt to see this little boy overflowing with love even during his youngest years.
I love this photo with all of my heart. On the surface I see a loving boy with emblems of his heart and identity. I love it because it tells a story of childlike love and innocence and what it means to belong to something and someone.
But if I look carefully, this image tells a story within a story. I also see Mitchie’s chubby little arm stained with marker and paints because his mother always preferred giving him an experience rather than pacifying him with some entertainment source. She could have taken the easy road a million times, while nobody was looking, and sat him in front of a movie or video game. Instead she always went to great lengths to give our children growth-promoting experiences. Every night she would collapse with exhaustion, wondering if she had done enough. In the mirror she probably saw a tattered mother unsure of herself. But through my eyes, I saw a hero.
This image is special to me because it contains two portraits of love; one between a boy and his father and another between a mother and her son. When I set out to have a family I knew I would love, but I never knew I would love like this – and I have fallen in love with love.
I don’t carry two toys in my pocket as emblems of my affections, but I do carry my son in my heart and soul. And for as long as I live I will remember this story within a story; and I hope that when I die my arms and hands are stained with marker, paint and dirt from serving and loving my wife and children. For if I have loved, then I have truly lived.
Mitch was only home a few days when he asked his mom if he could have an early birthday party saying his real birthday felt “so far away.” Somewhere deep within him, Mitchell knew. His intuition, his true eyes, were beginning to sense something bigger was afoot and the little boy in him wanted to be a boy … just a little longer.
His early birthday was such a treasured experience. We enjoyed seeing some of his closest friends celebrate his birth, life and friendship. Mitch was a humble and broken king for a day. While uncomfortable with all the attention he was getting, he enjoyed his time with his friends, his favorite chocolate cake from Costco, and pizza. An old missionary friend of mine, who had love and compassion in his heart, arranged to have the mascot for the Utah Blaze come to wish him a happy birthday. Little Mitch loved that. He wore the Blaze scarf he was given and held on to the autographed helmet all night. And many of you, his compassionate followers, wished him a happy birthday with loving Facebook posts, cards and gifts.
As his friends gathered round him to throw confetti in the air Mitch quietly smiled. He loved his friends, and they loved him. But something was happening within him and I could see it in his face. His adult soul was quietly emerging.
That evening my sister gave Mitch some helium balloons that had little glow sticks in them. They hugged the ceiling like florescent zeppelins as his room looked like a dimly lit moonscape. As my wife and I tucked him we told him how wonderful he was and that we loved him with all of our hearts. His eyes filled with tears as he told us he loved us, too. Our son drifted to sleep feeling loved. And of all the gifts we could give him, love was the most important. Yet I knew in my heart there was no gift I could give my son equal to the gift he was to me.
As I crawled into my own bed Mitchell’s birthday played back in my mind like a home movie. My heart was full but my soul trembled that night. I heard my son’s voice in my mind over-and-over: “My birthday feels so far away.” I marveled how a young boy could have such a distinct impression. He didn't know the details, but he had a sense of things. And often, a sense of things is all we ever get and we must do the spiritual work of understanding the meaning of it all.
Mitchell’s impression was not an isolated experience. At a later time I may share some other things that happened; things that showed me that all that is out of mortal view is, in fact, not so far away. It is closer than we know.
I have been taught that inasmuch as we serve each other, we are also serving God. So, I am deeply grateful to all of you who served my son by lifting his troubled heart. Your gift of love to him was also a gift to his parents. From the depths of our hearts, we thank you.
This little boy, who had to walk a lonely road, felt a little less lonely this day. And for that, I am grateful.
A few years ago we took Mitch to an MDA camp. He always had mixed feelings about going because he didn't like being away from home. It was also hard for him to see other children who were much further along the devastating path of DMD.
Over the years I learned to pay close attention to Mitch. Though quiet around people he didn't know, he always left breadcrumbs that told me he was thinking and feeling more deeply than he would lead others to believe. My experience with Mitch taught me how to hear what was never said aloud and to see what was often invisible to others. Learning to hear and see things that weren't obvious helped me love and serve my son and for that I am grateful.
So, as Natalie stood in line to register Mitch for MDA camp I was taking photos of … everything. Amidst the chaos of checking in I saw a young boy pass by whose muscle deterioration was more advanced than Mitchell’s. Mitch was polite enough not to stare, but he did notice this young boy out of the corner of his eye. As this young man passed I could see Mitchell’s head following him gently until the boy was behind him and out of view. Mitch then looked out the window pondering deeply, trying to make sense of things.
It was on this day I began to see Mitchell’s true eyes: eyes that read between the lines, see through the superficial … eyes that discern. Little Mitch was beginning to see. It was after this moment that I began to notice an awakening in Mitch. And, over the following months and years I had an unshakable feeling that he was being prepared for a significant change. Just before we learned of Mitchell’s failing heart I remember telling some who were close to me that I had a brooding sense something unusual was happening and that my son was undergoing a spiritual change; a quickening of sorts. I couldn't put my finger on it, I just knew something was happening. My eyes, too, were beginning to see.
Last February, as Natalie and I were driving Mitch home from one of his last excursions he said, “I will never get well. I will never get better. I know I will die.” At the time Mitch didn't know how close he was to death, but he was beginning to sense that something was happening. Swallowing my emotions I calmly responded, “Son, we all die. That is the price of life. But you, and I … and everyone else … will continue to live after our bodies are laid to rest. What really matters it is what we do with our time, and you my sweet son have done great things. You are a good, good boy and I’m so proud of you. Don’t worry about tomorrow, let’s live for today and do the best we can, okay?” Mitch nodded his head and we began to talk about the next Lego base we were going to build.
Since that exchange in the car Natalie and I had a few other sacred conversations with our son during the weeks leading up to his passing. The closer Mitch came to death the more I started to see in him an adult soul clothed in a 10-year-olds broken body. Sometimes it was difficult to distinguish what I saw with my mortal eyes from what I was beginning to see with my spiritual eyes.
I remember telling Mitch at one point “You are not your body. We are so much more than we can see with our mortal eyes.” Mitchell’s countenance told me he was not only absorbing my words, he was beginning to see things as they really are … that life doesn't end with death.
Author Dean Koontz wrote, “Intuition is seeing with the soul.” I love that.
And, over the years I have noticed that without intuition, without eyes to see, it is easy to get wrapped up in the thick of thin things. When I look back on my experience with my son I can see that while Mitchell’s spiritual eyes were opening, so were mine.
With all that was happening I realized then [and now] that Mitchell’s soul is older than I know. But I miss my 10-year-old. So very much. What I wouldn't do for one more day, one more hour, one more second with my boy.
And while my mortal eyes are clouded with tears - ever searching for my son - I have other eyes that see past the sorrow. Eyes that see clearly. Eyes to see.