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.
The last week has been a uniquely dark time in my life … nothing compared to the darkness of losing my son – but dark and difficult nonetheless.
A few evenings ago I took my 8 year old son to run some errands. It’s hard sometimes, but I do all that I can to be in the moment and not allow myself to be distracted by the million-and-one things that tug at my mind and attention. My heart was heavy this night and I was tempted to be whisked away in thought and concern. But then I remembered what a wise man once taught me [paraphrased]: “If you’re with someone … be with them. When you’re greeting someone and shaking their hand, give them all of you – even if only for 15 seconds … don’t shake their hand and look to the next person or thing … give them everything.” So, even though my heart was low, I put it in my back pocket and gave Wyatt everything I knew to give. I wanted him to know he mattered to me and that I loved him – and the best way to do that was to give him all of me.
The winter sky was getting dark and it felt like an ordinary evening. We were driving to a neighboring town when we discovered behind the hills was a sight we would have missed had we not been in motion. [I think there’s a life lesson in that.] As we left our neighborhood Wyatt and I saw the most peculiar sunset. Wyatt said, “Hey Dad,” pointing to the sky, “that reminds me of Mitchie.” I didn't have my tripod or big camera with me but I pulled over and tried to capture what we saw with my iPhone. Mitch used to do the same thing with his iTouch whenever he saw something beautiful. My phone didn't capture the sky the way we saw it so I adjusted the colors and values to match what we saw with our own eyes as best as possible. The way the sunset shone on just a small part of the mountain was one of those once-in-a-lifetime visions of beauty. I don’t know if I’ll ever see such a sight again in my lifetime.
Mitchie loves sunsets and would have been mesmerized by what we saw. No matter where I am I carry with me the memory of my son. If there is a gap in my thoughts, Mitch fills it to over flowing. Seeing this sky did just that.
I have often made references to that place beyond the hills where my son now lives. I want to be there, with him. But I also want to be here with my family. Grief, it seems, more and more has become a painful tug of war. Seeing this sunset reminded me that every so often I sense a light from beyond the hills – a glimpse that all is right. And if I’m patient and I keep trying perhaps the storm in my heart may soon find rest. And peace and rest are more likely to come when I do my best.
When I was young, I always sought after who was beautiful. After all, that’s what boys tend to do. But now that I've grown a little, I find myself seeking after what is beautiful. And I've learned beauty isn't so much seen, but felt … that in fact true beauty, the kind that matters, is never seen with the eyes but it is felt with the heart.
I remember this day so well. We drove to my in-laws ranch in Wyoming to spend the weekend away from the routines of life. Everything seemed slower over there – in part because it is so far away from everything we knew. I was in my early 30’s and it felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders. I worried about my business, payroll, my mortgage, health insurance, paying for diapers and everything else young dad’s worry about. I felt profoundly inadequate as a husband, father and professional – so I always found getting away a little cathartic and healing.
On this occasion we drove to a river a few miles from the ranch to explore its banks. At the time we didn't know about Mitchell’s diagnosis – it would be a few months after this photo that our dreams of the future would be dashed and our hearts forever broken. Everything that weighed heavy then would soon be made light in comparison.
Mitch was a tiny boy with a huge heart. Whenever I placed him on my shoulders he would always grab my hair like the reigns to a horse and steer me the direction he wanted to go. He would giggle while he tugged my hair and I would make pained faces because it hurt. Sometimes it hurt a lot … but that was a small price to pay for helping my son have a little fun.
As we started to walk to our car I saw my wife hold Mitchell’s hand as he took tiny steps along the road. I remember thinking at that moment if I were in search of the most beautiful scene in all eternity, for me, this was it. I remember getting emotional when I saw these two beautiful souls holding hands. That was love. That was beauty. I realized right then I was the richest, luckiest guy on earth and my heart was awash with gratitude.
Abigail Van Buren wrote “If you want your children to turn out well, spend twice as much time with them, and half as much money.” My sweet wife has always done just that … and it has been beautiful to behold. This photo was one of those moments.
Without trying to, my wife taught me by her quiet example that time and attention is the currency of love and the foundation of lasting relationships. I pray I never forget what she so gracefully taught me.
I love being a father because I have learned how to love --- I mean truly love. I also love being a father because I get to witness the beauty and power of motherhood. It simply has no equal.
I knew the Nerf battle was going to be short when Mitch closed his eyes, leaned toward the wall and put his frail hand out to keep from losing his balance. The war game Mitch organized had just started and my son asked to wear my paintball mask as part of his costume. Knowing his oxygen was low and breaths shallow I only let him put it on the moment we started and told him he could wear it for 30 seconds. The moment I saw Mitch close his eyes I took his mask off, kissed his forehead and whispered “Son, you are the strongest warrior I have ever known.” He whispered to me, “Dad, can I still play?” I told him he could and he smiled softly. Mitch hardly had the strength to lift his Nerf gun. Within a minute of that short exchange it was clear Mitch couldn't stand. The battle was over in less than two minutes.
Natalie scooped Mitch in her arms and whispered to him, “I love you” and carried him back to his room. The next morning Mitch would tell us in a slurry voice, “I don’t think I can survive.” My wife and I quietly wept tears from the deepest well of the soul. My son never left his room alive.
Within a few days of my son’s passing I received a private message from a military officer who wrote: “I've seen a lot of things in the past 54 months I've spent in Afghanistan as a Special Forces Green Beret, but nothing could have ever prepared me for what [I've seen on Mitchell’s Journey].” I wish Mitch could have seen what this military officer [and so many other uniformed officers] wrote about him. Mitch never thought himself as strong – but in things that mattered most, he was strongest. My son was so much stronger than me.
A board member of a company I run occasionally sent care packages to Mitch to let my son know he cared. Each time a box arrived it was addressed to “Man of Valor.” I couldn't help but get emotional each time I saw that. As I would bring each package to Mitch I would show him the label and describe what valor meant. Mitch would listen carefully to my words but I could tell he was confused why someone would say that about him. My son thought himself as ordinary, which made him all the more extraordinary.
Mitchell fought an implacable, mortal enemy – and though he died, he won the greater battle. My son, this two minute warrior, this little man of valor who fought bravely to live and love to the very end is my hero. The battlefield upon which we fought to keep Mitch alive is empty now and I can still hear the haunting echo of my son’s voice.
I thought death was hard, but I've come to learn grief is infinitely harder. But each day we are learning to rebuild our lives amid the rubble of broken hopes and dreams.
And so it goes, as one battle ends another begins … each day a battle of the heart, mind and soul in search of inner peace. I have discovered that inner peace is no trivial thing. Nations, civilizations, corporations, families and people are built or destroyed, sustained or compromised, by their relationship to inner peace.
Today I find myself on the battlefield of grief learning to fight an invisible war of loss and sorrow. My heart still trembles and soul shakes over the death of my son because he was so dear to me and I miss him greatly.
As I fight this battle of grief I have found inner peace because long ago I understood my core values, my priorities were clear, and I lived what I valued. I gave my son and family, who are most important to me, all that I knew to give. I didn't do it perfectly and I fall short daily – but I have never stopped trying or doing … and because of that I have found new armor, the armor of inner peace.