As we walked out of the viewing room with my two boys pushing Mitchell’s casket down the hall, I found myself terrified to turn the corner and walk in the chapel where hundreds of people waited for the funeral to begin.
When I was 18 years old I did the same thing, only I was following my father. I had never really been to a funeral before. I mean, I've been to funerals as a child, but I was never really there because those who passed were people I didn't know and, as young boys, playing with long-lost cousins was all we ever seemed to care about. So suddenly I found myself actually there … at a funeral … following my father who was a broken, lonely man and had become a dear friend to me. I had grown to care so much about him and he was suddenly gone. When we entered the chapel everyone rose to their feet out of respect. I was unprepared. I didn't know that’s what people do and I was taken aback by all that came in honor of my father. Through tears and blurred vision I made my way to the pew. And thus began my first journey through the maze of grief.
So, 22 years later I found myself once again at a funeral … reluctant, heavy with grief, this time following my precious son. I was afraid to turn the corner because I knew what would happen and I didn't think I could witness so many rise to their feet in honor of my broken son. By my side was my tender wife who was also broken and I didn't know how to help pick up the pieces and put her back together again. How I wanted to …
As we were about to enter the chapel I desperately wanted to stop the procession, pick up my son and put an end to the nightmare … to call off the joke or the misdiagnosis because surely there had been a big mistake. Like a horrifying dream from which I couldn't wake, a part of me wanted to race him back to the hospital and infuse his body with warm blood and start his weary heart again. After all, he was just with us days ago – why couldn't he be with us once again? I was desperate to hold Mitch, and kiss his neck and his face and love him like I didn't know to do … until this very moment. These are but some of the games the mind plays when processing the impossible.
It seems to me that many good people on the other side of grief, the observers, can sometimes have it all backward. Somehow they’re tempted to think, as I used to think, grief is greatest leading up to and at the moment of death … perhaps a few weeks after. But all of that is easy, by comparison. Grief, with all its weight and fury, takes its crushing toll in the emptiness that remains, in the dull silence long after our loved ones have gone.
We are fast approaching the first anniversary of my son’s passing. I still have much to say about grief and sorrow, faith and family, love and loss. I have much to say about God and His tender mercies – for we have seen many. And though I cry out in grief and sorrow [and oh how I cry, and oh how I grieve] I thank God I was blessed with my son.
Some of what I have written and will soon post will be the rawest of my writings yet. They will be hard and will surely draw the criticism of armchair pontiffs and self-appointed moralists. But this is my story and my beliefs – and I share them without apology.
Lest anyone wonder that we wallow in grief, rest assured where we stand today is different than where we stood last week. Each day is a struggle, each night laden with grief. But we are turning corners, step by step, and making progress week by week.
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.