I have a box on my shelf that contains precious treasures of my fallen son. Tucked neatly inside are some hand-written letters, drawings of castles and dragons he gave me, his wallet filled with tattered bills he worked so hard to save, a spiral binder with stories he wrote and his financial accounting of the iPod apps he purchased and his goals to save for new ones. This box is also home to the flower I wore at his funeral, a stuffed animal he gave me for Valentines, his favorite soap he was no longer able to smell and wished so badly he could, and other things that remind me of him. That box has precious treasures that I will carry with me until my dying day.
And while I treasure those things deeply, they are not the subject of my affections but merely symbols of them. They point to a little soul that I was blessed to raise for a season. Someone who I miss with all my heart and would give anything to see again.
Before Mitchell passed away he wrote on a piece of paper “Dad is the best”. When he handed it to me my knees buckled because I knew I was riddled with weakness; I recognized there are a million-and-one ways I can be a better father … could have been a better father. I wanted to be the best for him but in my mind I knew I fell short – no matter how hard I tried. But to his innocent eyes I was the best. And while unworthy of that I was also grateful that he could look past my weaknesses and see into the desires of my heart.
A few days before he passed away, as Mitchell started to slip away, I sat at his side and held his hand and kissed him with all the love I had. Even though he was slipping in and out of consciousness I wanted him to know during his waking moments that he wasn't alone and that his mom and dad loved him. While deeply flawed as a father, I loved him the best I knew how and wished so badly to trade places with him.
When I look upon this box of Mitchell’s treasures I know that my real treasures aren't made of wood or stone but live inside flesh and bone. I treasure my children above all things. I live for my wife and remaining 3 children ... but am dying inside for the one I lost. The work required to mend a broken heart while trying to be a functional parent and husband is a tenuous balancing act to be sure. Some days I’m a jellyfish.
As Father’s Day approaches I find myself reflecting on what it means to be a parent … what it means to be a father. I learned long ago that I have a Father who is the parent of my soul. This isn't fiction or an imaginary means of support; He is as real as anything I know. I know this because I have paid the price to know it. And that is the promise to all of us … that we can know of ourselves. I can think of no better example of perfect parenthood. To study Him is to study what it means to be a parent, to be a child, and to understand the purpose of this life.
If it is true that we become what we’re labeled, my son’s label of me before he passed away has been indelibly etched in my mind and heart. Not because I believe it, but because I aspire to live worthy of that label. I have many miles to go … with broken legs and a wounded heart I limp forward to that place beyond the hills. That place where I can fall upon him once again and kiss his hands and face and tell him that being his father was an honor and a privilege; to thank him for teaching me about the deeper meaning of life and love. To thank him for teaching me what it means to be a father.
Natalie and I took our kids to the park last November to enjoy one of the last mild evenings before winter took hold of the sky. Change was in the air and we could feel it in our bones. We both had a sense that more than the season was about to change but we didn’t know exactly what or how … if only we knew how much things would change. If only …
But there was a quiet whisper tugging at our souls. It wasn’t obvious to us at the time, but looking back we can see it clearly now. We weren’t alone.
It was on this evening Mitchell sat on the edge of a skate park and watched other young kids do everything he longed so much to do. He commented how much he wished he could be like regular kids and do the things they do. Even though I wished the same for him, I loved him any way I could have him … he was awesome just the way he was.
In an effort to lift Mitchell’s spirits, Natalie pushed him in his wheelchair across the grassy field to play tag with his siblings. Together, Mitch and his mother chased our kids as they ran from him. Mitch laughed and laughed. For a moment he forgot about a world that seemed to always leave him behind, the world was his. And for a moment my wife and I forgot about a world that was collapsing in on him. Everything about this moment was a gift. It was a perfect moment ... a moment that mattered.
Last month I printed this photo on canvas. It now hangs in my office as a reminder that beyond the hills is a place I cannot see … a place that my little boy waits for me.
I run to him.
A few weeks ago I walked by Mitchell’s room and noticed through the half-opened door his mother sitting on his bed with a look of sorrow and a longing for her little boy. She had a pain in her countenance only a mother who lost a child could know. As I quietly walked toward the door my eyes blurred and I stumbled over my heart as it fell to the floor.
Without making a noise I took this photo with my iPhone and disappeared into the shadows so she could have her moment uninterrupted. My wife sat on his bed deeply contemplative – stripped of a tender child she loved with all her soul. I could only imagine what thoughts were crossing her mind as she sat in the very place we tucked him in at night, where we gave him hugs and kisses, had long conversations, and played video games. This was the very place we held our son’s hand weeping that we couldn't save him from death and telling him we were so very sorry; the place he said “it’s okay mommy.” This was the place our precious son passed away in the deep freeze of a winter night while his faithful puppy had curled around his head as if to comfort him.
I’ll never forget that night … the night Mitchell passed away. I can still see her kneeling on the edge of his bed as she draped over him sobbing, hugging him, holding his lifeless hand … wishing he wasn't gone. That was the day my wife and I left earth and took up residence in an unfamiliar place. That was the day our world changed.
There are days … sometimes agonizing moments … the gravity of grief is so great it feels like I’m walking on Jupiter. It’s a place where your chest feels so heavy even breathing is difficult. I have come to learn that once you lose a child you leave earth’s gravity forever. You may visit earth from time-to-time, but Jupiter is where your heart is. And from what I can tell, we will live the remainder of our lives in the gravity well of grief.
There are many well-meaning people, as if to throw an emotional lifeline, who try to remind us life is but a “speck” in the eternal scheme of things. Or that they’re sorry for our “temporary loss” as if the wave of a hand and a simple utterance will assuage our sorrow. And while I understand the eternal nature of the soul – being mortal, life is the longest thing I know. The years ahead seem to stretch out into infinity and seem so very long without my son. I miss him terribly.
Jupiter, with its crushing gravity, is home. At least for now.
Author Bill Bryson said his book A Short History of Nearly Everything, that the universe is not only larger than we imagine, it's larger than we *can* imagine. When I read his words, that very notion blew my mind. To consider that the universe is so big that we don’t have the capacity to comprehend it … it gave me shivers. Bill Bryson’s comment reminded me of a passage in Isaiah where God said “My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways …. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.”
While walking on Jupiter I have learned that to have a knowledge of God (even a relationship with Him) doesn't protect us from pain and sorrow - but it can give meaning to pain and suffering.
One day my heart will leave Jupiter for a better place. Between now and then, the gravity of grief is a necessary crucible of growth. After all, it isn't our bodies that need to grow, but our souls.
And as I gaze into the night sky and contemplate the sheer immensity of space and mankind’s utter nothingness in the context of the universe – I feel a whisper in my soul that we are the reason all of that was created in the first place.
Mitchell's two brothers Ethan & Wyatt have their last lacrosse games today. Mitchell always enjoyed watching them play and often said how he wished he had the physical strength to participate in sports.
The Herriman lacrosse council dedicated this year to Mitchell's Journey and are donating some of the proceeds to PPMD. Every team in our city wears jerseys that say "Playing With Purpose" next to a muscular dystrophy ribbon. They also wear "Mitchell's Journey" helmet stickers. We were humbled to see hundreds of kids wearing uniforms that remember our son.
We were moved to tears by the lacrosse council's efforts to honor our fallen son ... to show these young athletes a greater type of teamwork that transcends the sport and points to a deeper purpose.
No matter how these Herriman teams may have ranked this year, they won the greater game. And thanks to the thoughtful actions of these leaders, these young boys walk off the field better athletes and more importantly better people.