It was a cold, blustery day in December. A winter storm was in full force and it seemed as if we were inside a freshly-shaken snow globe. Everything was white, soft, pure and beautiful. A thick blanket of snow covered everything and dampened the sound of the world; suddenly noises were less sharp and the harshness of sound seemed a little softer.
We decided to take our kids to the doctor’s office for Natalie’s last check-up before she was to deliver Wyatt. As we sat in the examination room Natalie told the kids to quickly feel her tummy because baby was kicking. Each of my children ran to her, reached up and softly placed their hands on their mommy’s tummy. Tiny Mitch, barely able to reach, also felt Wyatt kick and he said excitedly, “I can feel it! He’s moving!”
As I photographed this moment with my family I had a moment of truth. I marveled that we even had the capacity to create life - and what a life our children are. Each child, each human ever born is so remarkable in their uniqueness, identity and potential. Life is a miracle.
Just recently I listened to a dialog among scientists who were discussing the origins of human consciousness. It is a problem of modern science that confounds even the most learned. Surely in the years ahead science will make discoveries that lend insight, but there will always be matters of the soul, of intuition and spirituality that transcend biology. We cannot expect to understand things of the soul without using the very instruments of the soul. In the same way we cannot see ultraviolet light through binoculars, we cannot see matters of the spirit through the wrong instruments.
Life and the essence of consciousness is not only a miracle it is a mystery deeper than the oceans.
In the very moment I took this photo I was overwhelmed by the miracle of life; the miracle of these little children each of whom I loved so deeply – and yet another was on his way. I realized anew that life is a supernal gift. And though, through my lens, I saw my son who was fatally broken, my heart was filled with gratitude – for they were mine. My little miracles. My little ones. It was then I remembered we are all little ones.
As I work through the grief of losing my precious son I am sometimes tempted to think life is on pause and will begin again after I have grieved. But then I realized, in another moment of truth, that kind of thinking is foolishness. Grief is part of life … no different than love, laughter, fear, doubt, faith, and so many other things. I don’t want to die one day and realize I never really lived … because my mind and heart were sleeping or I had my head in the sand. I have a life, but am I living?
I have discovered that fearlessly being in the moment and learning to accept it – whether terrible or lovely – that is living.
Perhaps one of the great lies we tell ourselves is to believe we are only living when we are happy … as though unbridled joy, at the exclusion of sorrow, were our birthright. To the contrary, our birthright is to become more than we are – and like anything of value it won’t come easily. Personal growth and becoming will take effort, opposition and struggle – precisely why we are here in the first place. Surely happiness is part of life, but living also includes everything else. If we are waiting for bliss we are waiting to live.
Life is a miracle and a gift. Living is, too. I intend on doing both as long as I am able to.
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.
It was a year ago this very evening (almost to the hour) I received a call from Mitch who was in bed for the night. I was in my basement office when he called from the home phone to tell me his heart felt strange. Immediately I dropped what I was doing and ran to my son. When I first laid eyes on him I saw nothingness in his face. Upon seeing him I quickly scooped him in my arms as he came to. I remember thinking to myself, “[Please] … not like this. I’m not done with you, little buddy.” It was then that I felt the heavy, cold breeze from the abyss that was inching to devour my son. I could almost feel the ground from under him crumbling and it was then I sensed the true depths and darkness that was lapping at my son’s feet. Death was coming and I didn't know how to stop it. Within a week I would come to realize that death wasn't at our door but in our home lying in wait.
I stayed with Mitch a while to reassure him and to let him know I loved him. I tucked him in nice and snug, kissed his face and took this photo of his sweet smile. We talked about his Minecraft base and other things on his mind. He knew I was recording our conversation and he gave me a sneaky smile. He was as perceptive as he was innocent and sweet. I knelt by his bed and ran my fingers through his hair and said, “Son, people spend their lives in search of treasures. They go to the ends of the earth; they sometimes kill each other or themselves in search of it. They drain oceans and level forests in search of treasures … treasures that don’t last. But I have the world’s greatest treasure … and that is my family. You, son, are one of my greatest treasures. I want you to know how much I love and treasure you.” He smiled and snuggled his head deep in his pillow and drifted to sleep. I miss him.
Once Mitch was sleeping I went to the kitchen and wrote what happened in his event log. A few months prior we started documenting events and irregularities in search of patterns - there were none. In fact, nothing like that had happened before and I didn't know what to make of it. I didn't realize this small tremor was a prelude to a biological earthquake that would strike a week later and send my son into a death-spiral of end-stage heart failure.
The original post of this event can be found here: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=612458198783845&set=pb.192859897410346.-2207520000.1390160799.&type=3&theater
Until this night I didn't recognize this was the beginning of the end. I just did what I always did … I looked him in the eye and told him I loved him. Never a day passed that I didn't tell my kids how important they were to me. … how important they are to me. We spend our lives making sure they’re bathed, fed, clothed and on top of their homework … but I think kids should also be fed with love and clothed with confidence.
Why do we wait for someone to die before we eulogize them? Why do we withhold words of affection, commendation and admiration as if they were scarce commodities? Sometimes, at funerals, the nice things we have to say are said too late. And I get the sense, that for whatever reason, some people die a little inside each day – and a loving observation or a word of encouragement can be just what someone needs to breathe new life into their life. It’s been my experience that as long as I’m truthful and sincere with others, telling them what good I think of them never gets old and is always appreciated.
I said nothing at my son’s funeral that he didn't hear a million times from me. I didn't want him to go a day without a sure knowledge he was loved and treasured. And I hope that whatever thoughts crossed his mind as he was slipping from this world into the next that he knew how much he was loved and treasured by his mom and dad. I hope my son had a sure knowledge I could search the seas, the mountains and trees and never again find a treasure quite like him.
Though I can no longer hold my son, my treasure, as I once did he has made my life richer and more meaningful. Children are treasures that last.
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.