Last summer a client who has since become a friend of mine handed me a small silver box. We were sitting in his office when he handed it to me as tears gently filled his eyes. Tears filled my eyes, too. At some point during Mitchell’s viewing he asked for permission to take my son’s fingerprint because he had a gift in mind for my family. So much was happening I had all but forgotten about his request.
I remember the mounting panic I felt when the funeral director said they were going to shut Mitchell’s casket for the last time and asked us to say our final goodbyes. I draped over my son’s cold body and wept. Even though I knew he was gone, I didn't want him to be … and I wasn't ready for the finality of it all. At the time I didn't realize my sobs were audible even though they were quiet as a whisper – and frankly I hadn't cried like that since I was a young child. The viewing room, filled with the noise and chatter of 80 family members was suddenly hushed. Unaware that my faint whimpers had put in motion I soon realized the room was completely silent. I had never witnessed such reverence. I hope to never see such reverence again ... at least not on my family's behalf.
So as my friend handed me this silver box my mind went back to that day when I, a grown man, was reduced to rubble. My hands began to shake as I remembered he’d done something special. Part of me was afraid to see what it was. As I carefully pulled the ribbons back he told me that a few others from his office (who have also become dear friends of mine) pitched in to pay for this most unique memorial of my son. I was humbled and grateful.
As I peered into the box I discovered some small metal medallions each bearing Mitchell’s tender fingerprint. Evidence my son lived. My friend said this gift was inspired by an essay I wrote entitled “Fingerprints on the Wall” … and that this gift is a reminder that while Mitchell’s fingerprints may no longer grace the walls of my home, they will forever be etched in my heart.
Later that evening I took my family to the cemetery and we sat on the cool grass and talked about Mitch a while. We laughed and cried and each expressed how grateful we were to have him in our lives. Soon everyone became quiet and thoughtful – our hearts lay low because we missed our son and brother. I then placed this silver box on the grass and described to my wife and kids we each received a special gift in honor of Mitch. I could see in their faces a sorrow that was as unique as their very person. Ethan misses Mitch differently than Wyatt or Laura-Ashley. Natalie and I miss our son in ways that are as unique as our relationship with him. I have come to understand there are some feelings that defy description – and grief is one of them.
As I opened this box once again my hands trembled a moment but then became steady. They trembled at first because I was a father in pain, but they became steady because I was also a father who loved his family.
As my wife and children carefully examined their gifts, each deeply touched, I was grateful for my loving, compassionate friends who wanted us to know they cared … and gave us something to remember. And my son and the lessons on love and faith he taught me are gifts I shall long remember and hold close to my heart.
Last fall we took our kids to the same canyon we visited a year prior when we captured our last family portrait with Mitch. Only this time we carried with us the original painting my friend and talented artist Tyler Streeter created in honor of our fallen son.
My chest was heavy and my rib cage physically sore and fatigued from months of prolonged sorrow. Breathing seemed harder than normal this day.
We hiked along a trail that crossed some wetlands & a pond to the same location we took a photo of our kids when Mitch was with us. Ordinarily I don’t take portraits in part because I prefer capturing life unrehearsed but also because taking photos of young kids is about as easy as herding cats. But my kids have become accustom to me and my camera and they cooperate on the rare occasions I want a portrait style photo. This was one of those moments.
Last year I posted something that contemplated the economy of love and family. I wrote: “Love is such an interesting phenomenon. When we had our first child I thought to myself "I love this child so much, it is impossible for me to love another human more than this." In fact, I often wondered if I even had the capacity to love another person because the circumference of my love was bursting at the seams. Then, my second child arrived. I discovered that I didn't need to divide the love I felt for my first and share it with my second child. My love multiplied. And so it continued ... with each child my capacity to love increased exponentially. Oh, the arithmetic of family ... the arithmetic of God's plan.”
I love being a father. I have never in my life experienced more joy and more sorrow than I have from being a dad. And as impossibly difficult as it has been I wouldn't trade my life for anything. Through our joys and sorrows we grow. To what end, only God knows. But I have faith whatever burdens I am asked to bear will all make heavenly sense when looking back from over there.
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Painting by http://www.tylerstreeter.com/
Thank you Tyson Breckenridge & Tyler Streeter for reaching out and blessing our family with such a remarkable gift. We are forever in your debt.
I took this photo a few weeks ago. It was one of the colder nights of the year and all I could think about was how I wanted to take my son home with me where it was warm. Sometimes thoughts like that barge into my mind and heart unannounced and uninvited and I cannot help but experience the fatherly instinct to protect and care for my son. I know better, but that doesn’t stop those thoughts and feelings from happening.
On my drive home I had a few ideas about what I might say but as I sat down to write them my mind emptied while my eyes filled with tears. All that crossed my mind was how grateful I was for the gift that lay at the bottom of these two Christmas trees.
Although part of my heart died with my son … leaving in my heart an emptiness because he is gone … part of my son’s heart is with me and that is what I shall carry the remainder of my days. It doesn’t fill the emptiness but I have a feeling that in time it might.
I don’t know what emotions tomorrow holds, but today I feel a certain peace in my heart – and for that I shed tears of gratitude.
I knew my wife was up to something a few months ago when she was busy at work on her laptop and periodically asked me to help her find some specific photos. She had a certain energy about her but kept everything secret. Then a few weeks ago she had her parents and Aunt Sonya come over to our home to do something special. I am generally aware when something is up – but this time I didn’t see it coming.
We had dinner as a family and enjoyed each other’s company for a while and then we went downstairs for the big reveal. To our surprise Natalie had made custom Christmas tree decorations in honor of our son. On our table was an array of UNO cards, Nerf guns, dragons, stuffed animal huskies and Angry Birds, Legos and more. Each of us also received a block with photos of us and Mitch. It was the most unexpected and thoughtful surprise.
I was overwhelmed by emotion and quietly stepped out of the room and went down the hall … the same hall I stepped into, slid my back down the wall and wept like a child when Mitch told me “Well, at least I’m alive.” I sat in the darkness a moment and wept like I did when I knew I couldn’t save my son. I tried to dry up as quickly as I could and then went back in the room to participate.
As I walked back in the room everyone was busy putting decorations on the tree and I was so grateful for family. As we were wrapping things up, Natalie showed us a star she made with Mitchell’s face in the center.
Every time I see this tree I think of my son; and when I do, I do not have sad thoughts but thoughts of love and appreciation … thoughts of comfort. I am also reminded of what it means to be innocent and good. Mitch gave that to me, as did my other children – and for that, I am grateful.
I know there are some who bemoan the commercialization of Christmas (or any holiday for that matter) worried that people are obscuring its original meaning with all manner of distractions; and I understand the importance of remembering the origins of what we do and why we do it. But I also believe there is room for symbols, customs and traditions that remind us to be good. And if there are any such things, I seek after them.
This humble tree adorned with things my little boy loved serves as a reminder that family is a gift I cherish – a gift I will never again take for granted.