Two years ago we took our kids to the park on a sunny autumn afternoon. The heat of summer was behind us, the days were getting colder and we could feel the hint of winter’s breath on our faces. At the time Mitchell had strength to walk moderate distances and his valiant mother made every opportunity for him to enjoy what strength he had. On this day, however, Mitchell’s appetite for adventure got the best of him when, in a moment of quiet panic, he realized he walked so far that he couldn't possibly make it back.
Not fully aware what was happening, we saw in the distance two familiar forms run to him with strong arms and legs racing to rescue their little brother and bring him home. To the naked eye this scene was too far away to see or appreciate, but through my [400mm] lens this is what I saw. It didn't take long for my viewfinder to fill with tears as I witnessed unraveling before me the most beautiful, unrehearsed portrait of love.
Here were 3 little giants finding a way to make the best of their situation. A broken boy who got himself in trouble because his zest for life was greater than his body would allow; two siblings who abandoned their own youthful adventures to serve their little brother with tender care. In this moment I realized with crystal clarity that love is more than an emotional state. Love is a verb.
I have always appreciated the saying “It’s not the load that breaks you; it’s the way you carry it.” And recently this phrase has taken on a much deeper, personal meaning. The weight of grief is so great at times I find myself stumbling over pebbles. And when I look upon this photo, this accidental sermon of sacrifice and love, I am determined to follow my children’s example – to carry whatever loads are heaped upon me with love in my heart and a smile on my countenance.
We are about to frame the saying in our home: “Love is a verb. Get busy.” These are words to remember. Words to live by.
“I was raised to accept the reality life is tough, because it is. And at some point the world tells us we have to suck it up and take it like a “man” or a woman, or a lion or a bear. But I also realized in the privacy of our bedrooms or the quite of our minds there is often an unspoken dimension to us . . . a part of us that is vulnerable and mortal. A part that loves deeply and hurts honestly. Years ago I stopped pretending to be a lion or a bear. I decided to be human – and that has been liberating. ”
My daughter took these photos the day after Mitchell came home. He was so excited to be surrounded by all that was familiar to him. My wife and I were anxious to hold, hug and kiss him without the spider web of cables, tubes and IV’s. It was a surreal time for us. 48 hours prior to this very moment Mitchell had a team of 12 medical professionals all working vigorously to keep him alive. At home he had 1 hospice nurse whose job was to help him feel comfortable and usher his body through the painful process of organ failure and death.
For Mitchell, touch was very important to him. There was no blanket that could replace the warmth that came from his parent’s embrace. Ever since he was a baby he would rub his forehead against mine -sometimes for minutes at a time. He wouldn't say a word and neither would I; we didn't need to. We spoke more in our silence and gestures than could ever be communicated by words alone. This was one of his ways of loving deeply and I never tired of it. I yearn to do it again today and my heart sinks to the depths of my soul that I cannot.
Within a few days of this photo Mitchell lost the ability to smell. It never came back. He would tell me later how much he missed smelling the things he loved. He yearned for the scent of his favorite shampoo, the smell of popcorn and his dad’s cologne. He had an appreciation for the little things in life and I admired that about him greatly. A week before he passed away Mitchell asked if we could go to the store to buy shampoo that had a stronger scent … so that maybe he could smell again. I hugged him and quietly started to cry. Oh, the little things we so often take for granted …
I will never smell things the same again. Never a scent my nose encounters that I don’t thank my God for all that I have.
Over the last 2 years I would occasionally ask Mitchell what advice he would give people about life. Without fail he would respond “Be nice to each other and be glad you’re alive. Nothing else matters.” With this philosophy he never varied. I found it fascinating that a child so young was so attune to the intrinsic value of life. What’s more, he understood the deeply spiritual value of kindness. Most young children seem to worry more about play things and consumption (perhaps too many adults do, too) – but Mitchell possessed a sobriety about life and relationships that was far beyond his years. It was as if his soul knew what was to come long before his mortal body failed him.
I was raised to accept the reality life is tough, because it is. And at some point the world tells us we have to suck it up and take it like a “man” or a woman, or a lion or a bear. But I also realized in the privacy of our bedrooms or the quite of our minds there is often an unspoken dimension to us . . . a part of us that is vulnerable and mortal. A part that loves deeply and hurts honestly. Years ago I stopped pretending to be a lion or a bear. I decided to be human – and that has been liberating.
Three weeks after this photo was taken Mitchell’s weary and scarred heart, after having fought valiantly to survive, fluttered and stopped.
I would give everything I own, or could ever hope to be, to have my little son back with me. His broken heart, a heart that loved deeply and hurt honestly, was more noble and worthy than all the lions and bears on earth. Mitchell reminds me what it means to be human and that the lions and bears we often pretend to be are an emotional mirage. My son taught me there are no lions or bears, only humans. And to pretend otherwise is to cheat ourselves.
Ponderous little Wyatt contemplating big realities.
Yesterday marked one month since Mitchell passed away and three realities have become very clear: 1) grief is bewildering 2) there are no shortcuts for grieving the loss of a child, 3) it is the hardest work one will ever do in this life. I think it’s also safe to say, no matter how hard the road has been till now, the easy stuff is behind us. It would seem that what lies ahead is more difficult still.
In our home are the remaining flowers from Mitchell’s funeral. The fading beauty of each arrangement stands as a reminder that life is temporary and time waits for no one. While we cling to the flowers as a symbol of all that we loved and lost, they stare back at us unapologetically withering away. Looking back I can see that the days and hours we had with Mitch were more precious and few than even I had anticipated. As much as we would like turn time back and savor those fleeting moments we had with our boy, we cannot. And wishing won’t make it so.
When we took Mitchell home from the hospital we were given invisible hourglass. Doctors couldn't tell us exactly how much time we had, they just said "soon … very soon." With that we rushed out the door terrified of the unknown and did all in our power to love our boy and make his final days happy and full of love. Every day was a blessing, for we had our boy a little longer. Every day was a burden because we saw him slowly die.
A few days prior to his passing, Mitchell started to sleep more. His organs were shutting down and sleep was his body’s only way of preserving energy to survive. Throughout the day and into the night he would periodically wake and ask what time it was. Mitch became increasingly sad and frustrated when he realized that the days were slipping through his fingers and he was not able to enjoy the time he had. This broke our hearts and we would have done anything to trade places with him.
I remember as a young student one of my professors placed a saying above the clock on the wall that read: “The time will pass … will you?” It was a humbling reminder to me that no matter my preoccupation with getting through a grueling test, lecture or enduring some hard experience, time was on a fixed course and the only thing I had control over was me. I used to think to myself “if I can just get through this thing …. then all will be well” … as if simply gritting my teeth and waiting out some hardship were enough. I learned later in life that enduring difficulty isn’t as important as enduring it well.
A month ago my son’s hourglass has shattered to the earth and the sands have since blown away. Like never before I have become keenly aware that I have hovering over me an invisible hourglass of my own and I intend to make the most of whatever sands remain.