About a month ago a good friend and neighbor of mine thought they lost their elementary-age son. He didn't come home on the bus and was nowhere to be found at school. With each passing hour concern turned to crisis as they put in motion a community search for a sweet child who left no trace. Family, friends and neighbors gathered at their home to help look for their son. My wife and I joined the ranks of those willing to search. Natalie and I were weepy before we drove to their home because we desperately didn't want them to experience the loss of a child. As we knocked on their door, prepared to spend whatever time and effort in search of their precious son, we were relieved to discover they had just found him. Upon hearing the news, while standing in the entrance of their home, I quietly swallowed the swelling lump in my throat.
As I drove home, I lost it. I wept … and I wept.
At first I wept because I was happy my friend found his son. But soon my tears turned toward the loss of my own son, recognizing no mortal search crew could ever find him. Yet there are times in my mind and heart that I frantically want to search for him as though he were lost in a crowd of strangers. Times that panic and sadness course through my blood like battery acid because my son is out of my sight and no longer under my protection. Those moments are almost paralyzing. There was a time in my life that I used to awake from nightmares; always finding relief that the horror show I saw in my mind was only a dream. But after my son passed away, I found just the opposite was true … every morning I awoke into a nightmare. I have since learned that nightmares can be managed.
The other day I found Wyatt in Mitchell’s room talking to him as if he were there. Wyatt had so many things to say; and I just stood in the hallway in silent awe of my youngest son who was doing his best to sort things out. He loved his older brother and just wanted Mitch to know he loved and admired him. Wyatt knows Mitch isn't there in body, but wonders sometimes if his big brother is somewhere near him in spirit. I believe, on rare occasions, such communions can take place. But it is my experience those opportunities are rare and happen for a specific purpose. Most of the time, of necessity, we must walk through life with the dim flashlight of faith. For reasons of our own spiritual growth, that is how it must be.
As I entered Mitchell’s room I could tell that Wyatt wanted to talk. So I kissed his forehead softly and sat next to him as we started to talk about his brother. We both laughed. We both cried. Together we shared our favorite memories and how much we loved and missed Mitchie. And while our hearts were hurting, they were also healing.
I have lost my son … and in that loss I have found unexpected things: I have found a deeper love for my wife, Mitch and my other children. I have also found a renewed appreciation for life and my faith. And while I am strongly buffeted by moments of panic, horror and sadness because my son is gone, I know he is not.
My task, between now and the day I am laid to rest, is to not get lost in the thick of thin things … but to do what matters most. Always.
What we wouldn't do for one more day with our boy. The conversations, the love, the affections … we did our best to love little Mitch with all our hearts while he was with us, but we would do anything to love him more.
Mitchell has taught us to love like there’s no tomorrow – because one day there won't be.
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.
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.