I remember sitting under the stale, moldy wood of an abandoned tree fort deep in the back-woods of Minnesota. It stood high in the trees like an ancient ruin – covered in summer moss and swaying softly in the breeze. I was a young boy, about Mitchell’s age, and finding such an unexpected fort was magical. It became a place for us to disappear from the world … to dream of things and imagine the future. One summer, while sitting in our fortress in the trees, my friend and I asked each other what we would do if we only had a day to live. That was the first time I can remember asking myself that question. Being young and easily entreated we would talk of shopping sprees, all-you-can-eat candy, and driving Ferrari's.
Even in college I remember stumbling across that same question with friends. Our answers were different then – but the question remained.
Fast-forward about 20 years and this reality barged its way into my life like a terrifying home invasion. As far as we were concerned Mitch was home for a day and might die at any moment. So we lived each day as though it were our last because we couldn't afford not to.
For 28 beautiful but agonizing days, we thought Mitch was only home for a day.
My daughter took this photo shortly after Mitch came home. Moments prior he had reached out to hold my hand, our fingers interlocking and asked in an almost-whisper, “Dad, will you sit by me?” I remember him snuggling his face up to mine. I can still feel the warmth of his skin on my face, his shallow breaths on my chin, and his love bursting in my heart. Sometimes, when I think back on this moment, I reach to my face as though I could touch his – but then the dream ends and he is gone.
I’ll always remember how he snuggled up to me; I just closed my eyes and wished that I could freeze time or that I could steady his failing heart. At that moment I didn't know that Mitch was smiling – I only knew we loved each other. And that was enough, and more.
Home for a day: it was a wonderful blessing and a terrible burden. This experience was (and is) so difficult to endure. Eleven years ago my tender son didn't exist, and I was quite content without him. But now that I've had him I cannot imagine a life without him; and here I must find a way. I pray to God that my heart finds a way.
Mitchell taught me to appreciate each moment as though it were my last. I don’t mean to sound so dramatic as to peer dimly through the window of a funeral home, living each moment in fear of death. What I have come to understand, with exacting clarity and regardless of circumstance, is moments are fleeting. The moments I had with my kids last weekend are long since passed – I don’t get to go back there.
So whether I face death or more life, each moment is my last.
All too often I hear about the perils of distracted driving – but I wonder how often we think about distracted living. Perhaps being distracted is the root cause of much of our troubles.
Mitchell, being home for a day, taught me to remove the distractions that would seem to take life away from my life. And when I removed the distractions and lived in the moment, rich were the blessings and treasured the memories.
A strange illusion, indeed, to think that breathing is living.
Mitch was always concerned about falling. Unlike “regular kids” [as he called them] he lacked the strength to break his fall and lessen the impact of hitting the ground. Gravity was no friend to him and when he fell, he fell hard. Toward the end of his life Mitch found it increasingly difficult to get up from the ground by himself. Sometimes it was impossible.
Sweet Mitch wanted so much to run and play like other children. And when he did, he got himself in trouble. Every time he tried, he fell. Unlike a benevolent tutor, nature never rewarded his effort. In fact, the harder he tried the weaker he became.
Last summer we took our kids to a park just down the road from our home. I loved the summer clouds towering like mountains in the sky. Mitch and I used to lay on the grass and look in to the vast blue and imagine what it would be like if we could bounce from cloud to cloud like trampolines. This was one of those days.
Mitch was doing his best to run around and be like the others but he couldn't keep up. At one point he fell down pretty hard and Natalie raced to lift him. She said to him, “It’s okay honey, I’ll lift you when you fall.” I loved hearing that. I wrote about it in my journal that night and I cried. Her words kept playing back in my mind like a beautiful sonnet with a heavenly promise … “I’ll lift you when you fall.”
And that’s how it was with my wife … ever there to lift our children when they fell. If there was one thing Mitch could count on, it was his mom. She was there for him, always.
Mitch fell a lot this day … and he fell a thousand times since. Many times it was painful. But he always tried. And his mom, an angel made mortal … brokenhearted … was always there to lift him.
I miss my son. Oh, how I miss him. I would do anything to be tired again … to be worn out in his service. What I wouldn't do to be inconvenienced by his care if that meant I could hold his hand once more and look into his eyes and tell him how much I love him.
In this photo are two broken giants that I admire greatly. I stand deep in their shadow. I pray that I have the courage to try like my son tried. And I pray that I have the selflessness to set aside my own comforts and lift others like my sweet wife lifted my son. These two are my heroes. And I love them.
I cannot help but think that somehow, when all of this is over, we will find in our brokenness was the secret to being made whole. That our weakness, if we seek divine help, can be made strengths.
There is a reason we fall ... and a reason we were meant to lift.
It was Monday, February 25th and Mitch asked me to take him to the store. His strength was dwindling quickly and had I known he would die that Friday evening I would have begged him away from every distraction, pleaded with him not to sleep, and to not do anything that would steal time and attention from each other. Even though I did my best to love him and be in the moment, I would have done more. I don’t know how, but my heart tells me I would have done more. I suppose that is part of grief … learning to cope with wanting more.
Mitch always clung to my arm while I drove. If we were traveling as a family he would sit in the back seat on the passenger side so I could reach behind and hold his hand while driving. And when it was just he and I together, Mitch would sit in the front and hold my hand and cling to my arm. I loved how affectionate he was. Mitch melted my heart. And perhaps that is why my heart is broken so …
I miss driving with my son. To this day I long to reach over and hold his hand; in fact, sometimes while driving home from work [almost without realizing it] I find myself reaching toward the passenger seat and imagining Mitch sitting beside me once again holding my arm. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I feel peace. But I always, always long for my son.
So, on this wintry morning as Mitch and I were headed to the store, I remember Natalie kneeling to the floor and looking Mitch in the eye before we left and saying, “Mitch, I know you like to save your money, but just this time, I want you to splurge. There are other times to save. But right now, I want you to enjoy what you have worked so hard to save.” Mitch smiled softly and said “Okay, Mom.” Natalie knew this would be his last trip to the store.
I couldn't believe all that was happening. There, in my passenger seat, was my weary son dreaming of tomorrow but loving his moment with me. He was on borrowed time – and I think he began to sense it. Mitch asked if he could wear my hat, which I softly placed on his head. I am glad he did because the visor kept him from seeing the waterfall of tears that ran down my face and neck. I quietly took my iPhone and photographed his face and this was his expression. I don’t know what he was thinking at this moment – but this photo haunts me.
Little Mitch had been saving his money for quite some time. As we drove to the store Mitch didn't say much; he just told me he wanted to buy a new wallet, some Nerf guns for himself and his friends, and to see what other neat things were on the shelf.
I always chuckled at Mitchell’s shopping pattern; for as long as I can remember he would load up his scooter or arms or shopping cart with the things he wanted to buy. His boyish appetite for toys was as big as his imagination. But, after 15 minutes of serious deliberation, and after having counted the cost, he would put everything back. Mitch was always more content to leave with nothing but his hard-earned money. He never asked to borrow money, either. Mitch always lived within his means and understood the value of a dollar. Too many people these days confuse the spoils of debt with wealth. My mother once told me that “foolish people pay interest, wise people earn it.” Mitch, it seemed, had a natural wisdom about choice and accountability that is often lost, even in adults.
Mitch always counted the cost of things; whether with money, time or his choices, he was a wise steward over what was his. Mitch was strictly obedient because he never wanted to pay the consequence of poor choices. And because he counted the cost and paid the price, he earned our implicit trust. Mitch always weighed the cost of procrastination; on Saturday mornings while all of his able-bodied siblings were rolling on the floor moaning over their chores, Mitch was quietly getting his chores done with a smile. (And I have pictures to prove it) By the time our other kids were just getting started with their chores, Mitch was long done with his and allowed to play. Mitch knew the value of time and never spent it wasting or whining – just doing. And because he counted the cost and paid the price, he was able to play 3 to 4 times longer than his siblings.
It is fascinating to see what children can teach us, if we only set aside our pride and listen with our hearts. It is no wonder it said of them “of such is the kingdom of heaven”. They are innocent and good … they are noble, worthy and pure. Certainly we have much to teach our children, but they, at times, have so much more to teach us.
I am so thankful for my son who taught me to count the cost of everything. To this day, and forever, I will count the cost of my words, my actions, and thoughts; knowing that I will invariably pay the price for them – good or bad. I hope to have the wisdom of my son … to always count the cost and pay the price … and in so doing live a better life.
A few years ago my wife’s extended family gathered to swim at a local fitness center. All of the cousins had a good time reconnecting. As I saw my children laugh and play I was reminded how wonderful it is to have a family. My cup was overflowing.
The day had reached its end and we were waiting for the girls to exit the changing room. I was talking to my brother-in-law about work things when suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed little Wyatt dart past me. I turned my head only to discover Mitch being supported by his younger brother who wanted to keep him safe from harm. I could hear Wyatt say to Mitch, “It’s okay, you can do it!”
Mitchell’s arms and legs were weak … his footing unsure … but he was determined to try something new. And Wyatt, ever a faithful friend, jumped in and did what he could to bear him up. He gave no thought to his own safety – he only knew his older brother needed help and came rushing to his aid.
When I saw this spontaneous act of love and service I felt a lump in my throat begin to swell. I was captivated by what I saw and my heart was awash with gratitude, admiration and deep love for these little people who lived large.
If ever there were a symbol of how to live and love, this is it.
I will always strive to follow my children’s example and be willing to jump in. Like my youngest son Wyatt, I will look for opportunities to serve others and offer love and encouragement. And like my broken son, I will strive to be as brave as him … to look past my weakness and limitations and reach higher.
I don’t know what hardships the future holds – I only know the direction I must climb. And like my son whose arms and legs were weak and footing unsure, I will keep reaching upward. And perhaps at some point when I’m scared, or sad, or tempted to retreat, I will hear my son whisper from that place beyond the hills “it’s okay dad, you can do it.”