Posts tagged Walking on Jupiter
THE INVISIBLE HOURGLASS

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.

 
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TO BE A STUDENT

This morning my wife and I drove to Mitchell’s elementary school to collect his personal and school belongings. The air was cold and the sky was wrapped in a dull, grey blanket of clouds that seemed to match the mood of things. As we approached the school I reflected on all of the amazing teachers and staff who had done so much to support and love our family and I was overcome with gratitude. There was no coldness in my heart. 

I was doing okay until his teacher reached for a file box that contained everything that was Mitchells. In an instant, I was overcome by strong emotions and I did all that I could to hold back a massive surge of tears. Tears came anyway. My hands trembled and my body quaked as I quietly gasped for air. The pain of this moment was palpable. 

There, in a cardboard box, were items that to a stranger would have no value; but to us, its contents were priceless. A plastic container filled with pencils and crayons that Mitchell collected, a name tag, pieces of paper with his handwriting … a potpourri of elementary school artifacts that to me were more valuable than all the treasures of ancient Egypt.

As Mitchell’s teacher (Mrs. Masina) handed the box to Natalie she gave her a hug. I stood a few feet away fighting back the tears, doing all that I could to keep composed. All I wanted to do was curl up in a corner and sob. This compassionate teacher described how much Mitchell meant to her and that she loved him – it was clear that she was hurting, too. With a broken voice she admitted handing the box over to us was difficult because she loved Mitch and she felt like she was giving part of her heart away.

After Mitchell passed away she had each student write down their memories of him. She carefully laminated and bound the pages into a book. Each page was thoughtfully authored from his peers ... each page personal and authentic. Mitchell was universally referred to by his classmates as kind, deeply caring, fun to be with and humble. Reading through these hand written letters and drawings from 5th Graders, I learned quite a bit about Mitch. I also learned a lot about 5th graders … especially what they notice. I was reminded of one of my favorite sayings: “Oh what a tangled web do parents weave when they think their children are naive.” In reading their observations it was clear these young children were reflective, thoughtful and keen observers. Today these young students were my teacher … and I have been taking notes.

This painful experience was a gentle reminder that education is more than academics – that knowledge without humanity is hollow. The best teachers also teach what it means to be human – not by what they say, but who they are. And Mrs. Masina did this beautifully … and so did her students.

So here we stand on the other side of Mitchell’s education … and suddenly we are students of the hardest lesson life has to teach. Our homework … invisible to the eye - must be worked out in quiet of the mind and heart. I get the impression this homework will take a lifetime to complete. And when I look at this photo of these two beautifully compassionate women, I am reminded that there is a classroom none of us leave alive. Sometimes we are teachers … but we are always students.

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FUNERAL

My sister took this photo of my wife and I saying goodnight to our boy after this evening's viewing. 

I was so moved by everyone's genuine compassion - visitors from all over came to show their support and love. We were so grateful. 

With all the visitors, my heart was especially tender for Mitchell's little friends and peers. I would get on my knee as often as possible and hug these littlekids trying to sort out this loss - which is undoubtedly confusing, sad and scary for them. I would tell them that everything was going to be okay and how much Mitchell appreciated them ... how much Natalie and I appreciated them. 

Tonight was difficult and beautiful. There was a peace in my heart that was heavenly and assuring.

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