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.
Natalie and I left Mitchell’s room as he drifted to sleep. Mitchell was slipping away. Everything was escalating and we knew time was running out. We both sat in the hall just outside his room and wept. Our tears came from a well of the deepest sorrows. I eventually looked to my weary wife … exhausted, frightened and heavy with grief. My heart broke even more because I knew this woman, who has the tenderest of hearts, loved her little boy in ways only a mother can know. The “fix it” father in me desperately wanted to make it all go away, but I could not.
“Over the years I have come to understand that mortality, our life on earth, is a schooling the soul. It is an education that takes a lifetime to complete. There are books to study, things we must do, knowledge and faith we must acquire … and there are tests. Oh, there are tests. ”
There were many occasions that I prayed to God “Please, no.” I petitioned over and over that somehow … some way … my son would be spared. Yet, every medical intervention was riddled with peril. Too much was happening, too late. Every path was a dark path. Even still our prayers continued, “Please, no.”
At some point during my wrestle of the soul I received a distinct impression. After I had cried out what felt a million-and-one times “please no” I was finally answered with “please know”. What followed was a most unique spiritual experience. A peace and understanding had fallen upon my wife and me; and while we didn't have words to describe what we were feeling, we had a strong sense that we were being told “Please know, everything is as it’s meant to be. I've got this.”
Over the years I have come to understand that mortality, our life on earth, is a schooling the soul. It is an education that takes a lifetime to complete. There are books to study, things we must do, knowledge and faith we must acquire … and there are tests. Oh, there are tests.
There are tests of prosperity; what we do when the sun is shining and our pockets full or overflowing. There are tests of faith; what we do when the lights go out. Test of hardship; how we respond to our difficulties. Test of anonymity; what we do when nobody is watching. So many experiences we encounter … so many learnings, if we become students of the soul.
When I consider this hardship I pray that the child in my heart can rise above this profound sorrow. I know I can. And I will. But losing my son has broken every bone in my body, wrenched my soul and pulverized my heart. With all that I understand and have felt spiritually my heart still cries out for my son and I miss him terribly.
This hardship has taught me, however, that while I may plea to God “please no” … if the answer is no, I must change my plea to “please help me know.” That is the foundation upon which we grow.
Several years ago I introduced a concept to my mother called ‘Cousins Camp’. I had recently discovered it through a client of mine who also had a large family and I thought we could benefit from following their example. In essence, it’s a 3-4 day family retreat where all of the cousins get together and participate in a variety of family & team-building activities. The responsibility to run the program rotates each year among the mothers so everyone gets a chance to lead. For many years now Cousins Camp has become a family staple and something the cousins/grandchildren look forward to each summer.
A few summers ago, during our annual Cousins Camp, a small structure had been built near a small grove of trees at our family ranch. While concrete was being poured around the foundation my mother had arranged for each of the grandchildren to leave their hand print as the concrete was setting. Mitch, while eternally shy and quiet, was excited to participate. He had no idea at the time how precious his contribution would soon become to his mother and father.
Fast-forward to the summer of 2013 when I visited my mother’s ranch and stumbled across Mitchell’s hand print. I had all but forgotten about it. But there it was, covered in leaves like a secret nature was trying to keep ... obscured by the shifting shadow of the trees. Upon seeing it I fell to my knees and immediately sobbed. I couldn't believe how small and sweet his hand was and how I wished to hold it so. Within eye-shot of my son’s hand print was the tree-fort bridge he so bravely crossed when he was an even younger boy. Suddenly I was haunted by days gone by and longed for the warmth and comfort of yesteryear.
As I sat on the dirt trying to collect myself I couldn't help but think that 20 years from now that very bridge where Mitch showed such bravery will have weathered and decayed and all the cousins, who are children now, will have families of their own. The echo of days gone by will become fainter, and eventually silent. Their children, like all children, will look to the hope and promise of tomorrow – giving little thought to those who came before them.
We may not remember the details of days gone by, but the effects of those moments, good or bad, will long outlast their memory. Watching my own children grow, and die, has been cause for serious reflection. Whether we place our hands in setting concrete or find our hands in each other’s lives, we are shaping each other … and ourselves … and leaving a lasting impression.
My little son’s hands have painfully shaped me. Now, as I look to my own hands, I promise to use them to bind wounds and never be the cause of them; to use them to build and not destroy, to love and not hate.
That little hand print hidden in the shadow of the woods, from a boy who was as sweet and shy as he was broken, has left more than an impression in concrete. And I vow to never allow the passage of time or easier paths to undo the lessons he taught me at so high a price.
Just a few days before Thanksgiving we were told Mitch was denied a heart transplant because of his underlying diagnosis of DMD. We were told our son would potentially die in a few months and most certainly within a few years. Later that night I put this video together journaling what happened on this difficult day: https://vimeo.com/54167124.
Natalie and I left the hospital scared and overcome with a kind of darkness one rarely encounters in life. We found ourselves at once empty hearted and smothered in sorrow. Everything seemed strange to us. Nothing felt real. The hospital’s hallway felt so very long as we pushed our son in his wheelchair toward the exit. By the time we got to our car our minds were fixated on the biological grenade in our son’s chest. We had come to the horrifying realization the pin had been pulled and there was no way of knowing how and when the calamity would strike.
We swallowed the massive lump in our throats, dried our eyes and did our best to table our emotions. Sweet Mitch didn't know what was happening – and there was no point in telling him at the time. He was so young and to lay such heavy things on his shoulders would have only terrified him – and that would have been cruel.
It was our tradition to take Mitch to lunch after our cardiology visits. He loved Panda Express and that is where we went this day. His fortune, as fate would have it, read: “Your courage will reward you.” I remember posting that fortune on Instagram as well as this Facebook Page. A foreshadow of things to come.
After lunch I remember watching in awe two of my greatest heroes: a broken mother and an even more broken son. I remember trying to catch my breath and hold back my tears as I saw Natalie carry our boy with a smile, hiding her broken heart so as not to frighten him. Natalie was [and remains] eternally selfless and endlessly loving. She has never carried her burdens with a grudge – no matter how heavy or painful. And though her heart was heavy this day, and every day thereafter, she looked for every opportunity to make our son’s burdens light. To this day, she continues to look for ways to make the burdens of others light. I love and admire her.
Our son reminded us that burdens can be blessings. Even though my son’s disability carried with it the burden of care and inconvenience, it has been a profound blessing to have him in our lives. It is something of a heavenly paradox to witness … how the things that weigh us down make us stronger.
So we may become strong ... that is why burdens can be blessings.