As I have been working on a book for Mitchell’s Journey, I have been scrubbing over 1 million photos that I have taken of my family since we started having children. About a month ago I almost lost a little over 800,000 photos, but miraculously that data was saved with very little corruption. A catastrophe averted; another tender mercy.
With all that has happened I am grateful that I have always been liberal in taking photos; because seemingly ordinary moments way back when are priceless today.
Without apology or a moment’s thought I captured everything: the boredom, the laughter, the tears, the drama and on few occasions extreme hardships. So, as I have been working through this sacred vault of family photos the saying “sometimes you will never know the true value of a moment until it becomes a memory” has been playing over and over in my mind. And with each photo-set I poured over that saying was reinforced.
I never delete the blurry or over/under-exposed photos, either. I've noticed, as time passes, that I begin to see magic where I once saw mistakes.
I seem to recall another saying “the only bad photo is the one you never took.” So, my advice to everyone and anyone I know is to take photos. Take them like a paparazzi. In sickness and in heath, in happiness or sorrow … photographs fuel memory … and memory fuels the heart and soul.
I have never regretted taking a photo. In fact, I worry that I didn't [and don't] take enough.
For the last few weeks I have spent my evenings looking through some of Mitchell’s more recent adventures and my heart has swelled with gladness as I was reminded this little boy had a great life. And a great life isn't purchased with money or things – but given through an abundance of love, time and attention. And that is what we tried to give him, and our other children, every day in our own way.
For many of Mitchell’s life experiences I have my sweet wife to credit. Natalie, ever the conscientious mother, was never content with allowing our kids to consume endless television or video games. She regularly set aside her own convenience to ensure they were active and trying new things. I continue to honor and learn from her every day.
As I look at this thin slice of Mitchell’s life, only 25 photos, I can’t help but know the truth of those words: “sometimes you will never know the true value of a moment until it becomes a memory.”
From holding Mitchell’s hand in the car, to sticking his head through my sunroof to feel the air on his face, to the twinkle in his eye on a swing set … there are no ordinary moments. Not one.
I am so grateful for happy memories. And because we have photos of these moments … lots of them … our joys and memories are all the richer.
My cup, while cracked and tattered by adversity, is running over.
Several years ago I introduced a concept to my mother called ‘Cousins Camp’. I had recently discovered it through a client of mine who also had a large family and I thought we could benefit from following their example. In essence, it’s a 3-4 day family retreat where all of the cousins get together and participate in a variety of family & team-building activities. The responsibility to run the program rotates each year among the mothers so everyone gets a chance to lead. For many years now Cousins Camp has become a family staple and something the cousins/grandchildren look forward to each summer.
A few summers ago, during our annual Cousins Camp, a small structure had been built near a small grove of trees at our family ranch. While concrete was being poured around the foundation my mother had arranged for each of the grandchildren to leave their hand print as the concrete was setting. Mitch, while eternally shy and quiet, was excited to participate. He had no idea at the time how precious his contribution would soon become to his mother and father.
Fast-forward to the summer of 2013 when I visited my mother’s ranch and stumbled across Mitchell’s hand print. I had all but forgotten about it. But there it was, covered in leaves like a secret nature was trying to keep ... obscured by the shifting shadow of the trees. Upon seeing it I fell to my knees and immediately sobbed. I couldn't believe how small and sweet his hand was and how I wished to hold it so. Within eye-shot of my son’s hand print was the tree-fort bridge he so bravely crossed when he was an even younger boy. Suddenly I was haunted by days gone by and longed for the warmth and comfort of yesteryear.
As I sat on the dirt trying to collect myself I couldn't help but think that 20 years from now that very bridge where Mitch showed such bravery will have weathered and decayed and all the cousins, who are children now, will have families of their own. The echo of days gone by will become fainter, and eventually silent. Their children, like all children, will look to the hope and promise of tomorrow – giving little thought to those who came before them.
We may not remember the details of days gone by, but the effects of those moments, good or bad, will long outlast their memory. Watching my own children grow, and die, has been cause for serious reflection. Whether we place our hands in setting concrete or find our hands in each other’s lives, we are shaping each other … and ourselves … and leaving a lasting impression.
My little son’s hands have painfully shaped me. Now, as I look to my own hands, I promise to use them to bind wounds and never be the cause of them; to use them to build and not destroy, to love and not hate.
That little hand print hidden in the shadow of the woods, from a boy who was as sweet and shy as he was broken, has left more than an impression in concrete. And I vow to never allow the passage of time or easier paths to undo the lessons he taught me at so high a price.
Just a few days before Thanksgiving we were told Mitch was denied a heart transplant because of his underlying diagnosis of DMD. We were told our son would potentially die in a few months and most certainly within a few years. Later that night I put this video together journaling what happened on this difficult day: https://vimeo.com/54167124.
Natalie and I left the hospital scared and overcome with a kind of darkness one rarely encounters in life. We found ourselves at once empty hearted and smothered in sorrow. Everything seemed strange to us. Nothing felt real. The hospital’s hallway felt so very long as we pushed our son in his wheelchair toward the exit. By the time we got to our car our minds were fixated on the biological grenade in our son’s chest. We had come to the horrifying realization the pin had been pulled and there was no way of knowing how and when the calamity would strike.
We swallowed the massive lump in our throats, dried our eyes and did our best to table our emotions. Sweet Mitch didn't know what was happening – and there was no point in telling him at the time. He was so young and to lay such heavy things on his shoulders would have only terrified him – and that would have been cruel.
It was our tradition to take Mitch to lunch after our cardiology visits. He loved Panda Express and that is where we went this day. His fortune, as fate would have it, read: “Your courage will reward you.” I remember posting that fortune on Instagram as well as this Facebook Page. A foreshadow of things to come.
After lunch I remember watching in awe two of my greatest heroes: a broken mother and an even more broken son. I remember trying to catch my breath and hold back my tears as I saw Natalie carry our boy with a smile, hiding her broken heart so as not to frighten him. Natalie was [and remains] eternally selfless and endlessly loving. She has never carried her burdens with a grudge – no matter how heavy or painful. And though her heart was heavy this day, and every day thereafter, she looked for every opportunity to make our son’s burdens light. To this day, she continues to look for ways to make the burdens of others light. I love and admire her.
Our son reminded us that burdens can be blessings. Even though my son’s disability carried with it the burden of care and inconvenience, it has been a profound blessing to have him in our lives. It is something of a heavenly paradox to witness … how the things that weigh us down make us stronger.
So we may become strong ... that is why burdens can be blessings.
Mitchell’s final days were so very hard. We had just learned excessive sleeping was a sign that death was near, and he began to sleep more and more. Perhaps what makes my son’s passing additionally hard for me is there was no formal goodbye. It wasn't like he was boarding an airplane, or car, or a boat – as if to go on a long journey. There was no clear demarcation where I could give him a hug and look him in the eye and say “This is it, son. Oh, how I love you. Thank you for being such a good boy and I am so proud of you. I’ll see you soon.” He was awake and talking one moment, then he just drifted back to sleep and never woke up. By the time we realized what was happening, it was too late, and he was unable to open his eyes or talk. I know he heard us the night he passed because he could squeeze our hands in answer to our questions. And that night we did tell him we loved with all of our hearts as we wet his hands and face with our tears. But my heart and soul wanted more.
For reasons I do not understand, this was my son’s journey and I wish with all of my heart I could have taken that journey for him. But such a path was not part of God’s plan for my son or my family. My son’s death has taken my own heart, a heart that already cried at commercials or subtle acts of kindness, down a path that has caused it to be tenderer, still. My broken boy broke me. But I am putting myself back together once piece at a time.
A colleague said to me recently “There are two types of people in this world: those who admit to being broken, and those who don’t.” A poignant reminder that we are all mortal and there are always broken things to mend.
When it comes to the death of my father or my son’s disability and death, I have never experienced anger. I’m told anger is a necessary part of the grief cycle – but I feel no anger. At least for me, I have accepted those hardships as something from which I am meant to learn. What’s more, what does anger toward God profit a man? I have seen what the fire of anger can do to one’s self and to others; it consumes and destroys. Water, on the other hand, renews and gives life.
So while my soul trembles with grief and sorrow, I don’t shake my fists at God; angry at the burden we must bear. Instead, I kneel before Him and ask for mercy as I stumble to learn what I must. And while I weep because I miss my son terribly, my heart is also glad that I was blessed to be his father. Some of the greatest blessings come at the greatest price.
As often as possible I will trade fire for water; anger for tears.
Rather than scorching the soil of my soul, I will water it with my tears and hope to grow.