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(This story isn't about Mitch, but is somewhat related to Mitchell's Journey and the power of community)
 

Less than a week ago I received an email from an old high school friend from Lake Tahoe who also follows Mitchell's Journey. Over the years she has become an even dearer friend of mine. In her message she told me her husband was fishing and caught a camera. When he came home from his fishing trip Jamie (my friend) checked to see if the memory card still worked. It did. 

As fate would have it, the camera had been entombed in the ice cold lake for about 3 years and the family to whom it belonged had photos of Riverton and lived in South Jordan, Utah. As fate would also have it, I live near all of that. 

So, upon hearing this I posted the story of the lost and found camera with a couple of photos to some of my friends and a few local Facebook groups. Another dear friend of mine, 先生 Jesse Meadows (of Riverton Karate), circulated the story within her network, too, and from there the power of social media flexed its mighty muscles. In less than 3 days the owner of the camera was found. 

It was fun to be a small part of a neat chain of events. Two articles have been written (Utah/Nevada) and evidently CBS / National news is interested in telling more of the story. 

What are the odds? 

Clearly, the odds are in this woman’s favor. 

Photo credit: Jamie Clark (my awesome photographer friend from Tahoe)

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Jamie-J-Clark-photography/133250776762577

http://www.ktvn.com/story/24558594/tahoe-camera-mystery-hooks-local-fisherman-photographer

http://www.sltrib.com/sltrib/news/57464189-78/camera-levitre-garnett-lake.html.csp

Mitch was the quietest of scouts. I took this photo at his last Pack Meeting. It was a cold December night when Mitch received a handful of advancements he had worked hard to earn. As he placed the small pile of awards between his legs, he held on to his rank advancement with a thoughtful look on his face. I wondered what was on his mind. I asked him later that night but he smiled and looked in the other direction, like he often did. 

Something was changing inside him; I couldn't put my finger on it, but I sensed it. A year and a half before his heart failure I told a few people close to me about my growing impressions that Mitchell’s soul was being prepared for a significant change. I knew something was happening.

One of his fellow Cub Scouts pushed Mitch in his wheelchair back with his Pack. While not a Boy Scout, yet, I kept thinking of Mitch and the Scout Oath that begins “On my honor … I will do my best.” 

Mitch was always on his honor, and he always did his best. Because Mitch was a young man of honor I trusted him implicitly. I never once worried he would break his word. I knew he would never lie. To Mitch, honor was everything.

Earlier that fall Mitch was showing me one of his favorite games, The Sims, and described how he was struggling with something. He loved that game because it provided a simulated framework for his imagination. He didn't have the muscle strength to build forts and other things young boys did. In fact, he was reaching a point that picking up a glass of milk at the dinner table became increasingly hard for him - sometimes impossible. So certain video games became a fertile ground for his mind and set his youthful imagination free. On this particular game Mitch had built a beautiful home, had a job, managed his relationships and money wisely … he even had some pets that he cared for. When I learned of his struggle with a part of the game I suggested he search online to find a workaround and he responded, “No …” then paused a moment, “that would take the challenge out of it - and then there would be no point. The game would be no fun.” Those were his exact words.

I was so impressed with Mitchell’s discipline to not take short cuts – but to do the work the game was designed to require. Mitch knew the value of struggle. He understood the struggle was the reason. He knew struggle created an environment for growth and change. I turned to him and said, “Mitchie, you are exactly right. Don’t ever change.”

A few months would pass and my sweet boy would die, and part of me would die also. While my heart cries out and searches for some kind of workaround for grief, to make my way through this hardship more easily, I remember my son’s reverence of the struggle. Mitch taught me that to cheat ourselves from the hard stuff is to cheat ourselves of the good stuff. 

How is it these little children come into our lives and teach us infinitely more that we teach them? True it is, out of small and simple things are great things brought to pass. 

Last night I went to a Young Men’s orientation for youth in my neighborhood and church. My oldest son, Ethan, was recently called to be a youth leader among his peers and he was asked to speak briefly to some parents and younger boys who were coming of age to join Boy Scouts and other church/youth programs. I was so proud of Ethan. In the same room was one of Mitchell’s best neighborhood friends, Derek. Mitch loved Derek like a brother. I cannot look at him and not think of my fallen son. He was one of the boys who played Nerf wars with Mitch (see album Special Ops). I’ll write more of their special relationship another day. But I realized last night that Mitch should have been in this meeting, too. But Mitch was gone … and the world rushed madly on. 

Therein lies another challenge for those who grieve. Our loved ones become a footnote in history. Memories fade as the somber silence is slowly flooded with the noise of now. And that is how it should be, I suppose. We must move on – yet we’re desperate to remember. I long for my son today even more than the day I lost him. 

So last night was sobering for me. I sat in the same room this photo was taken almost a year ago and saw a rising generation of young boys advancing from one phase of life to the next. I sat in the back, near the exit in case emotions overcame me. I saw an empty chair where my son should have been and my heart ached to see his shy smile and hear his quite voice. I could almost see him there … looking back at me to make sure I was there and that he wasn't alone. 

In my mind I remembered once again the Scout Oath “On my honor I will do my best …” and thought of my son. A little boy who was weak and broken … who honored the struggle as both necessary and rewarding. I suppose when we've figured that out we can truly advance. 

Thank you, son. On my honor, I will do my best.

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Every day before Mitch went to pre-school he would carefully fill his backpack with his favorite treasures of the day. I love how young children do that. On the top of his bag his sweet mother wrote his name with a symbol under each word: a star to let him know he was our shining little boy and a heart to remind him he was loved beyond measure.

I always enjoyed seeing what he was going to pack – for each day was different, each day unique. I often wondered what treasures he carried with him said about his state of mind. One thing is for sure, he was a tender, sweet child … as all children are. I miss him terribly. 

My sweet wife would often place a secret note for Mitch and our other kids in their bags as they went to school. She wanted them to know that she loved them and thought of them always. And perhaps on a day that wasn't quite going right this little note would be a lifeline of love for a discouraged heart in a sea of trouble. As her husband I would occasionally see one of her thoughtful notes in my own bag, too, and it meant so much to me. And if that small gesture of love meant so much to me, I can only imagine what it meant to our kids. I love her for that. 

I had just taken Mitch to work with me in the spring of 2006, around the same time I took this photo. Here is an excerpt from my journal: 

“I've been blessed to take Mitch to work on occasion. Often he’ll sit with me at the conference room table while I’m meeting with employees & contractors. Sweet Mitch will quietly find himself coloring, playing with toys, and driving cars on my back and across my arms, or playing games by himself. He is such a sweet little boy.

I’m always surprised how considerate Mitch is of his surroundings and how careful he is to not be disruptive. I suppose from a distance keeping him at an office for hours at a time is not very fun. But Mitchie asks me if he can come … and he is so enthusiastic about it. Each time he comes to work with me I’ll bring a sleeping bag and pillow and we’ll make a comfy fort under the table – just like I would make as a young boy, but better. I’ll surround him with toys and things to do and kiss his sweet face as he wiggles himself into his comfy fortress with a smile. I have so much fun with him. 

Sometimes I’m tempted to call all my meetings off and spend the entire day making forts and playing with toys. I am not convinced age will diminish my desire to become a kid again.

After my meetings I always take him to lunch and we talk about his favorite kitties and the blanket forts we’re going to make when we get home. I worry he’s growing up much too fast.” 

Fast indeed. 

Seven years would pass in a flash and this little boy would no longer be with us. As Mitch was collecting his childhood treasures through the years, as little children do, I was also collecting memories and experiences – for that is all we really carry with us in life, and beyond. At least they’re the things we carry with us that no economy or person can take away.

Like my son, I have a backpack of treasures I carry with me always, only it cannot be seen … and it is filled to the brim with love and treasured memories. Filled to overflowing.

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When I was a young boy all I ever wanted was my parent’s approval. I wanted them to be proud of me, to show an interest in me and to give me enough time to know they cared. As long as I knew they loved me I felt like I could take on the world.

But the world wasn't always kind. I remember moving to Minnesota as a young child. It was my first winter and I was about 9 or 10. During recess a bunch of kids were sledding down an ice-packed hill in their snow pants. I didn't know anyone so I tried to jump in and do what everyone else was doing – hoping to make some friends. I remember being pushed over at the bottom of the icy hill by some boy who felt I didn't belong. As I tried to stand another boy pushed me back down. Within a minute I was surrounded and being kicked and spat upon by a mob of young men who didn't like me for some reason. I tried to crawl up the hill but kept sliding down the packed ice … back into their relentless kicks and a rainfall of saliva and swearwords. 

I don’t remember who those boys were. Even were I asked to identify them at the time I couldn't because I covered my face so it wouldn't be kicked. Thankfully there was never a repeat of that experience. Those boys had their pound of flesh and I slipped back into anonymity. I remember how I felt on the bus ride home. My jacket and snow pants dirty from countless spits, I felt awkward and inside out. I was confused and ashamed. When I got home I quietly went to our laundry room and washed my jacket and pants with hot water and a rag, without my mom knowing what happened. I vowed that day, and every day thereafter, to be kind to others and to love those who were downtrodden. I wasn't angry or vengeful. I only wanted to love more. 

Over the years I forgot about that experience but it forever changed me … and I tried to be kind to everyone. In the end, when we meet our Maker, nothing really counts if we’re unkind. I think many adults forget this. I know some powerful, successful men who beneath their chest thumping and lion-like roars are just insecure boys who never really grew up. They are worse than schoolyard bullies and have forgotten the life lessons we were taught in kindergarten and our childhood sandboxes. What do we really gain if we heap upon us riches at the cost of being good? What do we gain if we create cultures of fear and gossip? Nothing but a brittle and strenuous life … and that is no life at all.

I never wanted my son or other children to go anywhere without a sure knowledge we loved them – because I remembered how much that meant to me. Sweet Mitch was blessed with kind peers. I was so grateful he was never bullied at school or by neighborhood kids. In fact, he often had a gaggle of kids around him, helping him and cheering him on. And with the exception of one short-lived teacher aide a few years ago, who was unkind to him, he was blessed by some wonderful and loving adults that not only cared after him, but cared for him. My sweet boy really never felt alone. He felt loved, and for that I am so very grateful. 

I loved seeing Mitchie at school. His face radiated love and my heart exploded every time I saw his smile. Mitch was always quick to do his homework – and because of his discipline, his life was a lot easier. While my other kids slogged about [as most kids do] and took hours doing what could have taken 30 minutes, sweet Mitch was done and playing long before anyone else. 

We go to school to learn basic concepts and skills – but more importantly we go to school to learn how to learn. At least that’s how it should be … because learning how to learn is the ultimate knowledge. And once we learn how to learn we are equipped for life. There is no job, no assignment or obstacle, no opportunity or hardship we can’t figure out. It is a silly thing to think our learning stops when we graduate. 

Life offers some hard lessons and we are sometimes given some difficult homework. Losing my son has been the most difficult work of all – and my pages are warped with salt and tears. But I keep working at it. Each day, as I go through the homework of grief I learn a quiet lesson here and a subtle teaching there. Each day is also a test to see if I've learned or grown. If I pass, I move toward the next question or phase of grief. If I fail, I keep working at it.

Life is a fascinating school. I hope I can be like my little son – who had the discipline to not avoid the hard stuff. I have come to learn that while we may not be able to control some events in our lives, we can control how we respond to them … what meaning they have for us. And that is homework, too.

I suspect at the twilight of my own life, when my body is tired, old and grey … when I am anxious to leave and see my long-lost son … I will look back on my own life and see an intricately woven tapestry of hardships, lessons, blessings and tender mercies – all designed to help my spirit grow. A master class. I will realize with new clarity that Mitchell’s Journey started long before he was born and that the events in our lives are more interconnected than we realize. But between now and that final sunset I have homework yet to do and the work of grief, however hard and crushing, I must go through. 

I believe my little boy passed the test. I hope with all of my heart I can, too.