Last May we took our children to see a movie, something Mitch loved to do. Mitch always wanted to sit by me and I loved how he would cling to me and rest his head on arm during movies. Sweet Mitch had been gone a few months and it felt as if my heart were dragging on the floor 10 feet behind me. As a family we made a conscious decision to actively do things together and find a new normal. In fact, we were desperate to find a new normal … but normal felt a galaxy away and we were still walking on Jupiter, gasping for air. I’m still gasping.
I remember taking Ethan and Wyatt to see Ironman 3 - we were all so excited to see it. There was a point in the movie, under the cover of darkness and loud noise that I quietly wept during the most intense action scene. I wept because I knew how much Mitch wanted to see that movie and I ached that he wasn't with us.
As we left the theater I saw my son Wyatt crossing the road in the same way he did with Mitchell almost exactly a year prior – only this time Wyatt was without his brother. My heart, tender to the touch, was pained and I was overcome with a sober sense time changes things.
Just the other day I was showing my daughter photos of her when she was a wee child. We laughed and smiled as I told her cute stories about her young adventures and darling personality. I love my daughter so very much and I wanted her to know how wonderful I thought she was … how blessed I was to be her father. As we looked through those photos I remembered how simple life was back then. My wife and I were young newlyweds and what seemed mountains to climb at the time were merely moguls today. “Back then” felt like yesterday, but also a world away. My daughter, who was once a cute little girl with grass-stained pants and messy hair was suddenly a beautiful young woman who will be college bound in the blink of an eye.
Once again I was overcome with a sober sense time changes things.
I have always taken photos of my family because I had a deeply personal belief that I’ll never have now again. Even back then I understood, whether through the happenings of life or death, time changes everything.
Today, I am reminded of a profound truism that says “the trouble is you think you have time.” True indeed. Yet, I don’t value time for the fear of losing tomorrow, I value time because I don’t want to lose today. I will never have now again.
Yet, there are moments I am tempted to give up the “now” so I can hobble away in my cave to weep and grieve. Sometimes I must go there – even if only for a moment to purge the pain. But I know the work of grief is the work of a lifetime – and a heavy work it is. The trouble is, I am tempted to think I have time … time to grieve in my cave at the expense of my children today. That I cannot do. That I will not do.
As a grieving father I admit my cave is tempting. What’s more, in the face of deep sorrow, the forest of which Robert Frost spoke is indeed “lovely, dark and deep.” But as he so wisely penned, “I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”
Indeed I have promises to keep: I have a family to raise and an untold harvest of love to reap.
Upon learning of Mitchell’s diagnosis in 2005 we sold our home and began building one that would better accommodate his growing muscle weakness. Everything was happening so fast and the proverbial stars aligned in more ways than 100. However much we thought we were in control of our lives, as I look back on those years I can see with great clarity now a path was being cleared for Mitchell’s journey and my family that went far beyond my power to control. Providence was at work.
During construction we lived in an apartment for about a year and a half. Our place was small and cramped and most of what we owned (the furniture and treasured things we worked so hard to buy as young, broke newlyweds) was packed deep in a storage facility. None of that stuff mattered – we went back to the basics, back to the essentials.
There is something cleansing about less.
Life was suddenly simpler. All we had were our children – and they were so young and little; Wyatt was only weeks away from being born.
Our kids had bundled up and went outside to play in the fresh snow between apartment buildings. Mitch, who was wearing his mother’s white winter hat, was tiny but determined to keep up with his older brother and sister. Ethan and Laura-Ashley were both so kind to include him in their snowy adventures.
I loved watching Mitch stand there in his little snow pants, wearing his favorite Spiderman gloves and his mother’s hat – which hat made him look even cuter. My heart swelled as I saw my older kids gladly include their baby brother in building a snow fort. There was no material possession in storage or on earth that came close to the joy and satisfaction of watching my kids love and play that day.
My wife looked through the kitchen window to see how our kids were doing. It dawned on me at that moment this was the beautiful college girl I married years ago … a young woman who once worried about passing exams, looking pretty, and having fun with friends who had grown up and become a caring mother whose life was deeply woven into the well-being of her children. This was the girl, who in my younger years swept me off my feet and made my hands shake; a beautiful young woman that had morphed into a form of splendor I never quite supposed. If she was beautiful to me in college, she was even more beautiful at this very motherly moment. And, if she was beautiful on that wintery day … imagine how beautiful she is to me today. I will borrow the words of my fallen son by saying, “I’m the lucky one.”
The moment I took this photo I couldn't help but think this image a metaphor.
Each time we had a child we suddenly found ourselves on the outside of something marvelous. We began to realize for the remainder of our mortal days it will be as though we’re looking through a window at someone we love and care for deeply. We watch our children make choices and blaze their own paths through life – paths that may be very different from our own. My wife and I have learned we cannot control them – but we can teach our children correct principles and hope they learn to govern themselves wisely. We can council, we can guide, and while they’re very young perhaps we can shape them a little … but at the end of the day we stand on the other side of a window and watch them. To our delight, to our disappointment, or to our horror … we watch them.
I have had experiences in my life that also tell me there is a window to a place I cannot see. I don’t pretend to know much about that place – only that I know it exists. I believe from time-to-time that window opens a little – just enough for us to sense an impression or a whisper … loving guidance from those who have gone before us and care just as much for our well-being as my wife cared for our children this day.
Whether looking back on my life through windows of retrospect, or as I watch my children learn and grow, I pray I have the wisdom to never close the blinds. What’s more, I hope to keep my windows clean so I might see things as they really are. And if I’m truly wise, I will learn to quiet my soul and keep my window open a crack … that I might hear faint whispers from those unseen who love me and have my back.
Marco entered the ring last night and defeated his opponent in 20 seconds.
20 seconds ...
He remains undefeated.
Marco and his loving family invited a young man with DMD along with his family, to watch the fight and to get to know them better.
When Marco had the victory mic he could have said anything - and he chose to turn attention to this young man in a wheelchair sitting with his family not far from the ring and said, "I love you buddy."
Marco, you won twice last night. Keep up the good fight.
Here is a link to the young man, Caden, who Marco honored last night.
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Cure-for-Caden/136562783054288
Marco shares his gratitude and character after the fight here:
https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=807765899259019&pnref=story
This was Mitchell’s first morning after being released from the hospital to die at home. Though in the comfort of my own home and bed, I didn't sleep well that night – I wept and I prayed for my son to be delivered from the jaws of death. If ever there were a time for hope, this was it.
As I walked into my son’s bedroom I couldn't help but notice how the morning sun shone softly through his window and warmed the color of everything … as if to promise that not all of life is dark and there is cause for hope.
“For if we, being human, can love our children so intensely, how much more might He love us? I can scarcely imagine. I can scarcely take it in.”
I asked Mitch how he slept and he said in a soft voice “I slept great, Dad.” He was home – and that is where he loved to be. Until this moment I had never considered it possible to be in both heaven and hell at the same time. Yet there I was, in the middle of both… a beautiful agony.
Mitch was tired and weak so I helped him sit up while Marlie was still in his arms. She looked at him for a moment and then gave him a soft kiss. Mitch smiled and hugged his puppy close to his face. He loved having his own baby dog. Marlie had a mission of mercy to perform and for whatever reason she seemed to forget she was a puppy whenever she was near Mitch. This little dog that was no more than 3 months old gave my son much comfort.
I’ll never forget, despite my profound sorrow, the feelings of hope and peace I felt this day – and many days thereafter. Reflecting back on our time with my son on hospice I have come to understand those moments of peace weren't a promise of deliverance from hardship, but a faint whisper … a spiritual glimpse that all was as it was meant to be and that there were greater forces at work than I knew. So I learned to put faith in that.
I learned early in my life it is not reasonable to hope for a life free of hardship and sorrow. I cannot hope to be the only human exception, exempt from the sorrows of this life. But I can hope the tempest of sorrow and grief in my heart will one day calm. I can hope to find meaning, to search for understanding and experience growth. Those things are eternal and the things for which we can truly hope.
I also hope to see my son again one day. When I do, I will run at reckless speeds to hug him. I will wet his face and his neck with my tears and I will tell him how much I love him. And perhaps, when I turn around I might see the Father of my soul do the same to me.
I hope.
For if we, being human, can love our children so intensely, how much more might He love us? I can scarcely imagine. I can scarcely take it in.