Mitchell’s final days were so very hard. We had just learned excessive sleeping was a sign that death was near, and he began to sleep more and more. Perhaps what makes my son’s passing additionally hard for me is there was no formal goodbye. It wasn't like he was boarding an airplane, or car, or a boat – as if to go on a long journey. There was no clear demarcation where I could give him a hug and look him in the eye and say “This is it, son. Oh, how I love you. Thank you for being such a good boy and I am so proud of you. I’ll see you soon.” He was awake and talking one moment, then he just drifted back to sleep and never woke up. By the time we realized what was happening, it was too late, and he was unable to open his eyes or talk. I know he heard us the night he passed because he could squeeze our hands in answer to our questions. And that night we did tell him we loved with all of our hearts as we wet his hands and face with our tears. But my heart and soul wanted more.
For reasons I do not understand, this was my son’s journey and I wish with all of my heart I could have taken that journey for him. But such a path was not part of God’s plan for my son or my family. My son’s death has taken my own heart, a heart that already cried at commercials or subtle acts of kindness, down a path that has caused it to be tenderer, still. My broken boy broke me. But I am putting myself back together once piece at a time.
A colleague said to me recently “There are two types of people in this world: those who admit to being broken, and those who don’t.” A poignant reminder that we are all mortal and there are always broken things to mend.
When it comes to the death of my father or my son’s disability and death, I have never experienced anger. I’m told anger is a necessary part of the grief cycle – but I feel no anger. At least for me, I have accepted those hardships as something from which I am meant to learn. What’s more, what does anger toward God profit a man? I have seen what the fire of anger can do to one’s self and to others; it consumes and destroys. Water, on the other hand, renews and gives life.
So while my soul trembles with grief and sorrow, I don’t shake my fists at God; angry at the burden we must bear. Instead, I kneel before Him and ask for mercy as I stumble to learn what I must. And while I weep because I miss my son terribly, my heart is also glad that I was blessed to be his father. Some of the greatest blessings come at the greatest price.
As often as possible I will trade fire for water; anger for tears.
Rather than scorching the soil of my soul, I will water it with my tears and hope to grow.
I think it's safe to say that 1 out of every 10 thoughts is not about my son.
I have been to many funerals in my life; my father passed away when I was 18. That was hard. Since then I have experienced all manner of loss – but I have never known a sorrow such as this. And as much as I would love to take one, there are no shortcuts.
I once wrote in my journal: “I’m not sure which is heavier: all the granite on earth … or grief.” I can say with confidence that it isn't granite.
Our hospice nurse, who is no stranger to loss, encouraged us to allow grief to take its course – all the way to rock bottom – and from there we could begin to rebuild our lives. I don’t know where “rock bottom” is or what it feels like. I only know that I’m still falling down the rabbit hole of grief. I’m not spiraling out of control, but I can tell the bottom is still a great distance below. And sometimes, when I least expect it, it is difficult to keep my breath.
The day Mitchell’s headstone arrived was surreal; I remember taking my wife to see it that evening where we learned a new definition for sober. I remember how hard it was to breathe that day – my chest and lungs exhausted from weeping. Every time I entered the cemetery tears would invariably flow. Like a teething baby, the front of my shirt would be drenched with tears.
I can go to the cemetery now without crying – at least not the entire time.
This summer has been a blessing for me, personally. With my kids at various summer camps, etc. circumstances were such that I could spend many evenings by my son – even if only for a moment. I knew he wasn't there -- but I so wanted him to be. And while I sat by my son’s remains, I was able to reflect and sort out many thoughts and feelings and write about them. The cemetery became something of a second home to me. The grass a warm carpet and the atmosphere, comforting walls of serenity. When I look back on my summer months trying to process my own grief, I have good memories. Healing memories.
Things are changing now. As fall inches toward winter each day the grass seems to grip the cold and hold it like a grudge … a whisper of colder air to come. And, for a season, I will miss those warm evenings by my son.
When I leave the cemetery I invariably look through my rear-view mirror to see my son’s headstone before I drive away. In like manner, I have found myself looking through the rear-view mirror of my own life. I look back not to dwell on hard things and sadness but to learn from my own experiences and hopefully become equipped to make better decisions in the future.
I have heard it said so many times before that “no parent should bury their child” … but that kind of reflection does nothing for me, or anyone. Life shows us in painful abundance that hard things happen … and sometimes we must bury our children. I would give anything to have my baby back – but I cannot. And wishing won’t make it so. So, rather than focusing on what “shouldn't happen” or the apparent unfairness of it all, I find myself looking through the rear-view mirror and then to the future … trying to learn from this incredible hardship.
As I tumble down the rabbit hole of grief I anxiously await rock bottom. And on my way to that unfamiliar place I am healing a little and hopefully that healing will give me the strength to break my fall and lessen the impact.
It feels like yesterday when I heard the sound of muffled thumps and giggles in our living room. I was so intrigued by what I heard that I had to sneak behind our couch to spy on what was happening. As I quietly crawled within view I saw Mitch laughing as he would squeeze and twist Ethan’s ear like a squishy toy. They were both laughing so hard that I couldn't help but laugh, too. Little Mitch never had a mind to hurt his brother – only to wrestle like young boys do.
Because Ethan knew his little brother was physically weak, he adapted his play-style so Mitch might feel strong and competitive. Ethan could have easily turned the tables and overpowered his younger brother. Instead, he set aside his pride, bridled his strength and allowed Mitch to win in ways that were unique to him – and in so doing, they both won.
There was a point while home on hospice Mitch said to me “Dad, I just wish I could wrestle. I just want to wrestle...” By this time Mitch could hardly function – so it broke my heart to see him yearn for something he loved to do but couldn't. I wondered if Mitch missed wrestling so much because his older brother helped him feel normal, healthy and strong.
Ethan, by surrendering his strength, did more than serve his brother this day. He reminded me that on the other side of service is the often invisible act of lifting hearts and minds – and Ethan knew how to do just that for his little brother.
This image reminds me there is so much more to service than lifting heavy things or shoveling a neighbor’s driveway. There is a time and place for strong arms - but there is a greater place for gentle hands and soft hearts. The service of a smile, a kind word or loving encouragement can do so much for the downtrodden soul.
And sometimes, perhaps more often than we appreciate, service can be seen in handing strength over to someone who is weak – and giving them a chance to win.
I miss the muffled thunder of Ethan and Mitch wrestling in my home. And while part of my home is empty, my soul is overflowing with gratitude because I was blessed with two little giants who showed me the other side of service: love.
At the top of my property rests a secret forest filled with scrub oak. It’s not very big, but if you take your imagination with you it is big enough. This secret wood hugs a 20 foot tall volcanic cliff that marks the end of my yard. A few years ago we carved a path through the woods to a secret place that overlooked the valley. Mitch loved it. We placed a bench there so, every once-in-a-while, we could sneak away from the world to talk and eat popsicles while the sun set. Every time I go there I feel like a little boy again and am strongly tempted to throw my wallet to the wind and make forts and get lost with my children the remainder of my days. If only life were that generous and simple.
“... my son and his faithful friend taught me that true strength isn’t found in pushing people down, but lifting people up.”
One evening Mitch wanted to go to the top of our yard so I gave him a piggy back. He and his best friend, Luke, sat on our bench and started to talk. I was about to walk down the trail and give them some space when I turned my head only to see Luke put his arm around Mitch and say “I’m glad you’re my friend, Mitchell.” I sat there a minute and listened to them talk about video games and a new Nerf gun war strategies.
My heart was filled with gratitude. These two young boys were brothers to the end – and I love them both. When I captured this moment there was no way of knowing how symbolic this image would soon become; that in a few years Luke would come to Mitchell’s side once more and hold his hand, as if to put his arm around him the night before he died. Luke would tell him for the last time “I’m glad you’re my friend” and how much Mitchell meant to him. I wept like a child that night. And I weep again today; not only from sadness, but from a deep love and appreciation for who these young boys are and what they taught me.
When I think of all the tender mercies that were afforded my son and family by a loving Heavenly Father, Luke is chief among them. As fate would have it, or better said divine intervention, Luke was our next-door neighbor. A more fitting neighbor and friend there never was. It was as though they were cut from the same rare quarry. What’s more, what one friend lacked, the other more than compensated. They were each other’s yin and yang. This was a friendship that was forged in Heaven - of that I am sure.
Mitch had a few other dear friends that were also tender mercies - and I’ll write of them another time. But the relationship between these two was most unique and the tenderest of mercies. There was nothing quite like it.
When I look upon this image I can’t help but think about what it really means to be human. So many of the atrocities in the world happen because we forget who we really are. And when we forget, we turn humans into objects, or leverage, or worse. But if we remember who we are, sons and daughters of a loving Heavenly Father, at once our relationship with each other (and how we see ourselves) changes. We begin to see past deficits or disabilities, rudeness or insecurities … we learn to see in others and ourselves what we can become. And that’s a game changer.
Even though I weep for my son and long for his companionship (and oh, how I weep … and oh, how I long), I am also so grateful for him and all that he taught me.
And while I live in a world that tends to confuse rudeness with strength, my son and his faithful friend taught me that true strength isn't found in pushing people down, but lifting people up. And these two young boys did this – magnanimously.