Last October 25th the first winter storm of the season had rolled in; a little earlier than normal. It was cold enough for the snow to stick and we were all excited about the changing seasons. I took a panoramic photo of the neighborhood so Mitch could see how ominous the storm looked. He loved weather…
Today I stumbled across these photos I took on my birthday last year, and when I saw them, I just wept.
I loved then, and even more today, the humble, heart-felt birthday card Mitch wrote me last year. He was so sweet about it. I'll never forget how he handed it to me with a shy smile and eager eyes anxious to see my reaction. I remember kneeling down and reading it, then looking him in the eye, thanking him and then giving him the biggest hug. I wanted him to know what he did was awesome and that I appreciated it very much.
As a child I never understood why on my mom’s birthday she would say “just make something for me.” I always thought the best presents had the best wrappers and cost a lot of money. As I have grown older and had children of my own I have come to understand why she said what she said.
I would sooner have a heart-felt, hand-written note from any of my children than the most expensive gift money can buy. In the end, our children are the greatest gifts. And what our children offer is far greater than anything the world, with all its tinsel, has to offer.
I love being a father. I hurt being a father. And sometimes I am scared being a father. But in the end, I wouldn't trade my life for anything.
Later that cold evening my kids lit candles on a pumpkin pie (far better than any cake in my opinion). And while their gifts to me were sweet and thoughtful, the greatest gifts were ones money cannot buy. Their gift to me was themselves. I couldn't have been more blessed on that day.
To be their father meant I was, and remain, the richest man on earth. For the gifts that make us truly rich have nothing at all to do with money.
Last October, almost at this very time, we took our kids to the mountains to shoot some family photos. The air was crisp like an apple and carried an aroma of pine and cedar, a hint of dirt, crunchy leaves and soggy wood. Fall was in the air and Mitch loved it. And because he also loved smells … the mountain air seemed to be something of a gift to him that day … as if to offer a loving farewell to a little boy who would soon go on a journey far from this place.
Mitch loved the seasons and the transformations that came with them. With each season Mitch became excited for what lie ahead; the promise of the summer sun, the chill of winter snow or the renewal of spring blossoms … he loved it all.
In almost every way, Mitchell was just like me. He loved everything I loved. What’s more, in ways that are difficult to describe, he often felt like my echo.
So, we got busy taking a few family photos. It isn't my practice to take many portraits because I prefer raw captures of life unrehearsed. But from time-to-time portraits have their place. We took one of my favorite family portraits on this occasion and I will treasure it the remainder of my days. I will post it soon.
While we were busy experimenting, Mitch asked if he could take some photos with one of my cameras. By this time in his life DMD had weakened his arms to the point that it became difficult to lift the camera to his face. So I mounted my camera to a tripod, stepped aside and let Mitch take the lead. I took photos of Mitch shooting his mom and sister and I thought he was so cute directing the girls. Mitch took some great photos that day. Oh, how I love him.
Whether on his own or in some class Mitch always startled me by his insightfulness. Ordinarily shy and reserved, he had a mind that was deeper and more thoughtful than he would lead someone to believe. Once a week he attended an art workshop in the evenings. Mitch often resisted because he just wanted to be in the comfort of our home. But Natalie, being a wise parent, knew what was good for her child wasn't always comfortable or easy. So, she lovingly insisted that he go – encouraging Mitch to learn and grow.
He always seemed to leave with a frown but come home with a big smile. As his art portfolio grew in size – so did his confidence. Mitch, like my other children, was experiencing a transformation from something good into something greater. As with all things worthwhile, that kind of growth required work, leaving his comfort zone and persistence.
My wife teaches me about parenting every day. As a parent, her choices are instinctively wise and forward-thinking – ever mindful of the transformations our children are experiencing. I have much to learn from her.
Transformations. That is the singular reason we are here on earth, I believe. We’re not here to build homes, accumulate things and eventually die. We’re here that our souls might learn and grow – to transform from something good into something much, much greater. And growth can be uncomfortable, scary and painful. Oh, it can be painful.
Toward the end of his life I began to sense that Mitchell was more than he seemed. As I mentioned in my funeral address, I began to look upon my son with spiritual eyes and sensed that beneath the veneer of a 10 year-old’s broken body was a spirit much wiser and older than I realized. Mitchell has transformed into something I can no longer see or feel. But I know he lives.
My wife, who is spiritually wise always teaches me without trying, seemed to instinctively understand that “what is good for us isn't always comfortable or easy.” Despite his protests, she took Mitch to those workshops … and he grew. I admired my wife’s loving insistence and watching Mitchell’s transformation.
The Father of my soul has taken me to a workshop – the hardest of all workshops. With tears in my eyes and a trembling heart, I hope to follow my son’s example and return with a smile on my face and a transformation in my soul. Nothing of value comes easily, and I pray that I’ll never lose sight of what my wife so humbly taught me: “what is good for us isn't always comfortable or easy.”
I remember sitting under the stale, moldy wood of an abandoned tree fort deep in the back-woods of Minnesota. It stood high in the trees like an ancient ruin – covered in summer moss and swaying softly in the breeze. I was a young boy, about Mitchell’s age, and finding such an unexpected fort was magical. It became a place for us to disappear from the world … to dream of things and imagine the future. One summer, while sitting in our fortress in the trees, my friend and I asked each other what we would do if we only had a day to live. That was the first time I can remember asking myself that question. Being young and easily entreated we would talk of shopping sprees, all-you-can-eat candy, and driving Ferrari's.
Even in college I remember stumbling across that same question with friends. Our answers were different then – but the question remained.
Fast-forward about 20 years and this reality barged its way into my life like a terrifying home invasion. As far as we were concerned Mitch was home for a day and might die at any moment. So we lived each day as though it were our last because we couldn't afford not to.
For 28 beautiful but agonizing days, we thought Mitch was only home for a day.
My daughter took this photo shortly after Mitch came home. Moments prior he had reached out to hold my hand, our fingers interlocking and asked in an almost-whisper, “Dad, will you sit by me?” I remember him snuggling his face up to mine. I can still feel the warmth of his skin on my face, his shallow breaths on my chin, and his love bursting in my heart. Sometimes, when I think back on this moment, I reach to my face as though I could touch his – but then the dream ends and he is gone.
I’ll always remember how he snuggled up to me; I just closed my eyes and wished that I could freeze time or that I could steady his failing heart. At that moment I didn't know that Mitch was smiling – I only knew we loved each other. And that was enough, and more.
Home for a day: it was a wonderful blessing and a terrible burden. This experience was (and is) so difficult to endure. Eleven years ago my tender son didn't exist, and I was quite content without him. But now that I've had him I cannot imagine a life without him; and here I must find a way. I pray to God that my heart finds a way.
Mitchell taught me to appreciate each moment as though it were my last. I don’t mean to sound so dramatic as to peer dimly through the window of a funeral home, living each moment in fear of death. What I have come to understand, with exacting clarity and regardless of circumstance, is moments are fleeting. The moments I had with my kids last weekend are long since passed – I don’t get to go back there.
So whether I face death or more life, each moment is my last.
All too often I hear about the perils of distracted driving – but I wonder how often we think about distracted living. Perhaps being distracted is the root cause of much of our troubles.
Mitchell, being home for a day, taught me to remove the distractions that would seem to take life away from my life. And when I removed the distractions and lived in the moment, rich were the blessings and treasured the memories.
A strange illusion, indeed, to think that breathing is living.
Mitch was always concerned about falling. Unlike “regular kids” [as he called them] he lacked the strength to break his fall and lessen the impact of hitting the ground. Gravity was no friend to him and when he fell, he fell hard. Toward the end of his life Mitch found it increasingly difficult to get up from the ground by himself. Sometimes it was impossible.
Sweet Mitch wanted so much to run and play like other children. And when he did, he got himself in trouble. Every time he tried, he fell. Unlike a benevolent tutor, nature never rewarded his effort. In fact, the harder he tried the weaker he became.
Last summer we took our kids to a park just down the road from our home. I loved the summer clouds towering like mountains in the sky. Mitch and I used to lay on the grass and look in to the vast blue and imagine what it would be like if we could bounce from cloud to cloud like trampolines. This was one of those days.
Mitch was doing his best to run around and be like the others but he couldn't keep up. At one point he fell down pretty hard and Natalie raced to lift him. She said to him, “It’s okay honey, I’ll lift you when you fall.” I loved hearing that. I wrote about it in my journal that night and I cried. Her words kept playing back in my mind like a beautiful sonnet with a heavenly promise … “I’ll lift you when you fall.”
And that’s how it was with my wife … ever there to lift our children when they fell. If there was one thing Mitch could count on, it was his mom. She was there for him, always.
Mitch fell a lot this day … and he fell a thousand times since. Many times it was painful. But he always tried. And his mom, an angel made mortal … brokenhearted … was always there to lift him.
I miss my son. Oh, how I miss him. I would do anything to be tired again … to be worn out in his service. What I wouldn't do to be inconvenienced by his care if that meant I could hold his hand once more and look into his eyes and tell him how much I love him.
In this photo are two broken giants that I admire greatly. I stand deep in their shadow. I pray that I have the courage to try like my son tried. And I pray that I have the selflessness to set aside my own comforts and lift others like my sweet wife lifted my son. These two are my heroes. And I love them.
I cannot help but think that somehow, when all of this is over, we will find in our brokenness was the secret to being made whole. That our weakness, if we seek divine help, can be made strengths.
There is a reason we fall ... and a reason we were meant to lift.