About a week after my son passed away I walked into his room and found his faithful puppy Marlie sleeping at the foot of his bed waiting for him. Upon seeing this I immediately fell to my knees and began to sob. Although my vision was blurred by tears I eventually noticed the white rose on his pillow that was left by the mortuary when they came to take my son away. It hit me in a way it hadn't before … my sweet son was gone. Really gone. The weight of grief was so profound at this moment that breathing was nearly impossible and in many ways death for me would have been a sweet release. Of course, I know better but the aching in my heart was visceral and brute.
Last weekend, eight months later, we watched a Primary program from the children in my church. It was beautiful and my heart was filled with gratitude for the women who volunteered their time and talents to create such a special occasion for parents to see their little ones shine. I kept my eye trained on Wyatt and I was so proud of him. I tried to stay focused on my youngest boy and I smiled and winked at him often. I wanted him to know he was loved. But at some point during the program my eyes scanned the landscape of young faces and I saw Mitchell’s classmates and best friends. Once again I was overwhelmed with the harsh reality my sweet son is gone. Really gone. As I watched these children sing my heart fell to the floor and was trampled by a stampede of brutal emotions. I did everything I could to keep from weeping and I almost lost it 1,000 times. Every second was a battle to remain composed. As beautiful as that program was, it was a very difficult day because a very special boy was gone.
Today Mitchell’s room remains relatively untouched. On his wall hangs a Halo calendar with February still on display. His drawers are filled his treasures just as he left them; Cub Scout advancements waiting to be sewn to his uniform, his favorite candy, unfinished Lego projects, a closet filled with things he treasured. Behind his door, hanging from a coat hook, is his backpack with January homework assignments he worked diligently to complete. On his bedpost are two of my hats he wanted to wear while he was home on hospice, which I gladly gave him and adjusted them to his head so they would fit properly. The deep sentimentalist inside me doesn't think I can wear them again.
When we eat meals as a family we often don’t realize, as a matter of habit, we've set 6 places at the table until we’re seated. Five seats are occupied. One seat, visibly empty. Nobody says a word about it and we carry about our usual business of catching up with each other and enjoying conversation. We smile, laugh and talk about life today and our memories of yesterday.
As a family we are not morose and we naturally celebrate all that is good in our lives. But, deep inside me, the father who desperately seeks after his lost son, anguishes that he is gone.
At moments when I least expect it powerful emotions come barging into my life. And when they do, they are soul-rending and utterly heartbreaking. Like a drowning man gasps for air, I find myself at times gasping for my son in a sea of grief. Thankfully these moments are less frequent, but they are no less powerful and overwhelming.
I often hear of stereotypical fathers who never show emotion and seemingly never feel them. If there are such men in the world, sometimes in my moments of grief, I envy them. But, alas, I am not that kind of father – nor do I ever want to be – because when I love, I am me.
Since Mitchell’s passing I have had moments of peace that defy human experience. I have had some experiences that are so sacred I will never share them publicly. But I will say that I know my son lives. But he is over there. And I am here. And even though I have a spiritual understanding of things as they really are, that doesn't keep my heart from breaking. And sometimes my soul weeps.
Love and sorrow are part of the mortal journey. Both exquisite, both dear teachers of the soul; and I will forever be their student.
Marlie had such a tender relationship with Mitch. It was as if she knew he was sick and cuddled with him whenever possible, contrary to puppy instincts which would have had her running around instead. Yesterday marked 6 months since our son’s passing … and when we arrived at the cemetery Marlie was so .... different. Almost reverent. Our hearts were quiet ... and grateful.
In February, when Marlie visited him at the hospital she was much, much smaller and would wiggle her baby tail, wobble up to him and kiss his smiling face and then lay right next to him. Mitch would then play with her little paws, tickle her tummy and talk to her softly. He loved this puppy – and she seemed to love him.
On the night of his passing Marlie was especially tender with Mitch. By that evening he couldn’t open his eyes but could squeeze our hands gently to let us know he heard our words. Marlie would lay under one of his hands while he would softly move his fingers as if to pet her. I was so moved by that sweet exchange I turned my camera to them and filmed it. It would only take a few seconds watching that before my eyes became engulfed with tears.
While Mitch was slipping deeper and deeper into the abyss he seemed to find comfort that she was near him – and she never left his side. By the time he passed away, Marlie had crawled to his pillow and curled around his head. I have photos of this, too. It is tender beyond description and still very hard for me to look at. I wonder if Marlie sensed he was slipping away and went to his head to comfort him. I would like to think so …
What I do know is there were things unspoken between them that said more than words can ever say; and it was curious to see. This little dog, Mitchell’s loyal companion, would have done anything to make him happy and seemed to know just how to comfort him as long as they had each other.
Marlie is full-grown now and Mitch would have loved to see what she looks like. He always called her his little Polar Bear.
As hard as it is to keep and care for a pet, when I stop and think about the economy of it all, it would seem they pay us back in spades.
Tender mercy #1,002.
To everyone who has been following Mitchell’s Journey, to friends and family, and those in our neighborhood and ward who want to help, I want to offer a heart-felt thank you. It is such a perplexing time for us ... and we don't know how to be helped. So much of what is before us is far beyond anything anyone can do to fix. But your personal concern, and the concern of others, has done much more for us than any temporal assistance could.
I had a sweet experience last month with a friend of mine who is a Bishop (a religious leader in my church). We have worked together professionally in the past and through the years he has become a dear friend. As we sat in my office, he was asking about Mitchell and we both started to cry and he made a comment about "mourning with those that mourn" and in an instant those words that I had heard a million-and-one times growing up, took on a deep, rich and fulfilling meaning. As far back as I can remember I have always tried to be compassionate to others ... and if I couldn't directly sympathize I would deeply empathize with those who suffered. But being on the receiving end of that empathy ... seeing him mourn with me ... that was quite different and I learned a lot from that quite Spirit-felt exchange. Many of you, in your most sincere gestures (both public and private), have mourned with us and that has been remarkably strengthening.
While navigating the labyrinth of pain and sorrow, Natalie and I often talk about finding joy … and we believe it is all around us. I think joy is a natural byproduct of gratitude. It's so often the little things, if appreciated, that bring joy to life and amplify happiness. There is so much to be grateful for. There are tender mercies all around us, every day.
I've always struggled with the dinner prayer ritual where people say, "please bless this food that it may nourish and strengthen our minds and bodies ..." or anyone who might say the same things every day in the same way. I have expressly taught my kids to never do that - but rather to be very specific and genuine with Heavenly Father. When they pray they say "we are so very grateful for macaroni and cheese, we absolutely love it and are blessed to be able to eat it. thank you!" I have found this idea spilling into their personal prayers ... where they ask for less and thank Heavenly Father more for the little things they enjoy in life. They express gratitude for warm blankets, soft pillows and good friends. And quietly, when they express gratitude for the little things, I thank Heavenly Father for their little souls and humble hearts. I believe it is in recognizing the many blessings we already have that we find happiness. That isn't to say life isn't painful for us and that we wish things were otherwise - but our trials, when placed in the context of our blessings, seem to give us a much more balanced and joyful perspective.
Even in the midst of our deep heartache with our son's prognosis, we have seen God work in our lives . . . for which we are deeply grateful and we can find joy in the midst of our pain.
So when you reach out to us ~or others~ ... and offer genuine love and concern, [you] have already done more than we could ever ask. And in our hearts we pray that it will be counted unto you as if you performed a million acts of service.
So in our suffering, we have come to understand the magnificent doctrine of "mourning with those that mourn" and the relief it can bring to heavy hearts. After all, it is the battles that rage inside our minds and hearts that are in greatest need of others service - and that you all have done that so beautifully for us by extending the pure love of Christ.
Thank you. Thank you for teaching us time and again this powerful principle of mourning with those that mourn.