Mitch followed me wherever I went. He was my shadow … my dear child and sweet little friend. He seemed to always find comfort being around me and in his absence I have come to realize how much comfort I took in being around him.
Last summer we had some family over for a BBQ . Everyone was inside or up the hill in our back yard talking. I found myself at the grill doing what dad’s do and I turned to the place Mitch usually sat while I cooked and he wasn't there. Never a chair seemed so empty. I started to cry.
I took this photo a summer prior as Mitch sat with me while I prepared dinner at the grill one hot summer evening. It was a perfect night and I enjoyed listening to Mitch talk to me about his plans for the future. I normally never take selfies because I am far more interested in what I see in other people than I am in seeing myself. But this time I made an exception because I was with my sweet boy and I wanted a photo of the two of us. I almost didn't take this – but I am so glad I did.
I think I am beginning to understand the deeper meaning of the scriptural passage “the valley of the shadow of death.” Over the years I have heard many recite that passage as though they were words from a hallmark card. But I have come to learn that all of ancient scripture are not only accounts of mankind’s dealings with God, but a record of real sorrows, what we’re to learn from them and why we suffer. Deep inside that poetic prose are words that carry heavy meaning, borne of real consequence and real sorrows.
Death indeed has cast its shadow. Shadows, by their very definition limit ones view – we cannot see what happens over there. And in death’s towering shadow I find myself on a journey through the valley of grief … a valley that is deep in the shadows … deep in grief. It is a place where I stumble and a place where I weep as my heart and mind search for my son and that unspeakable peace.
I miss my son, my shadow. I love him. I weep for him. And as I find my way through the valley of grief and sorrow, deep in the shadow of death, I am not afraid … for I know God lives. I know He loves us. And while being mortal we may be required to suffer – there is a divine reason for all that we experience. If we look inward and upward we can learn and grow … even through the dark shadows and deep valleys that only God knows.
I love this idea, but it isn't mine. I saw something like it a while ago on Pinterest and have no idea as to its true origin. But I was so moved by it I decided to create one of my own, and then added the third step.
I loved this idea because it reminded me of my sweet wife, her endless selflessness and how she set a standard of goodness for our family to follow. It also reminds me that many of my own troubles can be avoided or solved when I turn me to we.
No matter how perilous or dark the path, Mitch never felt alone because my wife always turned me to we. Even in her darkest hours as she suffered and made heavenly pleas, I watched her in awe, and fell to my knees.
Excerpt from my March 7, 2013 post “Fingerprints on the Wall”:
“There is a poem I have long admired that reads: “It will be gone before you know it. The fingerprints on the wall appear higher and higher. Then suddenly they disappear.”
While Mitchell’s fingerprints on the walls of our home may disappear, he has left an indelible fingerprint on the walls of my soul. In life, he taught me how to love deeply, how to laugh loudly, and how to play freely. In death, he taught me how precious and fleeting time really is. He helped me understand with great clarity time is finite and perishable.
It is safe to say we are prepared for [the funeral] … except saying our final goodbye ... goodbye to the fingerprints on the wall.
But alas, his fingerprints, the ones that matter ... remain.
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.