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 feels like yesterday when I heard the sound of muffled thumps and giggles in our living room. I was so intrigued by what I heard that I had to sneak behind our couch to spy on what was happening. As I quietly crawled within view I saw Mitch laughing as he would squeeze and twist Ethan’s ear like a squishy toy. They were both laughing so hard that I couldn't help but laugh, too. Little Mitch never had a mind to hurt his brother – only to wrestle like young boys do.
Because Ethan knew his little brother was physically weak, he adapted his play-style so Mitch might feel strong and competitive. Ethan could have easily turned the tables and overpowered his younger brother. Instead, he set aside his pride, bridled his strength and allowed Mitch to win in ways that were unique to him – and in so doing, they both won.
There was a point while home on hospice Mitch said to me “Dad, I just wish I could wrestle. I just want to wrestle...” By this time Mitch could hardly function – so it broke my heart to see him yearn for something he loved to do but couldn't. I wondered if Mitch missed wrestling so much because his older brother helped him feel normal, healthy and strong.
Ethan, by surrendering his strength, did more than serve his brother this day. He reminded me that on the other side of service is the often invisible act of lifting hearts and minds – and Ethan knew how to do just that for his little brother.
This image reminds me there is so much more to service than lifting heavy things or shoveling a neighbor’s driveway. There is a time and place for strong arms - but there is a greater place for gentle hands and soft hearts. The service of a smile, a kind word or loving encouragement can do so much for the downtrodden soul.
And sometimes, perhaps more often than we appreciate, service can be seen in handing strength over to someone who is weak – and giving them a chance to win.
I miss the muffled thunder of Ethan and Mitch wrestling in my home. And while part of my home is empty, my soul is overflowing with gratitude because I was blessed with two little giants who showed me the other side of service: love.
At the top of my property rests a secret forest filled with scrub oak. It’s not very big, but if you take your imagination with you it is big enough. This secret wood hugs a 20 foot tall volcanic cliff that marks the end of my yard. A few years ago we carved a path through the woods to a secret place that overlooked the valley. Mitch loved it. We placed a bench there so, every once-in-a-while, we could sneak away from the world to talk and eat popsicles while the sun set. Every time I go there I feel like a little boy again and am strongly tempted to throw my wallet to the wind and make forts and get lost with my children the remainder of my days. If only life were that generous and simple.
“... my son and his faithful friend taught me that true strength isn’t found in pushing people down, but lifting people up.”
One evening Mitch wanted to go to the top of our yard so I gave him a piggy back. He and his best friend, Luke, sat on our bench and started to talk. I was about to walk down the trail and give them some space when I turned my head only to see Luke put his arm around Mitch and say “I’m glad you’re my friend, Mitchell.” I sat there a minute and listened to them talk about video games and a new Nerf gun war strategies.
My heart was filled with gratitude. These two young boys were brothers to the end – and I love them both. When I captured this moment there was no way of knowing how symbolic this image would soon become; that in a few years Luke would come to Mitchell’s side once more and hold his hand, as if to put his arm around him the night before he died. Luke would tell him for the last time “I’m glad you’re my friend” and how much Mitchell meant to him. I wept like a child that night. And I weep again today; not only from sadness, but from a deep love and appreciation for who these young boys are and what they taught me.
When I think of all the tender mercies that were afforded my son and family by a loving Heavenly Father, Luke is chief among them. As fate would have it, or better said divine intervention, Luke was our next-door neighbor. A more fitting neighbor and friend there never was. It was as though they were cut from the same rare quarry. What’s more, what one friend lacked, the other more than compensated. They were each other’s yin and yang. This was a friendship that was forged in Heaven - of that I am sure.
Mitch had a few other dear friends that were also tender mercies - and I’ll write of them another time. But the relationship between these two was most unique and the tenderest of mercies. There was nothing quite like it.
When I look upon this image I can’t help but think about what it really means to be human. So many of the atrocities in the world happen because we forget who we really are. And when we forget, we turn humans into objects, or leverage, or worse. But if we remember who we are, sons and daughters of a loving Heavenly Father, at once our relationship with each other (and how we see ourselves) changes. We begin to see past deficits or disabilities, rudeness or insecurities … we learn to see in others and ourselves what we can become. And that’s a game changer.
Even though I weep for my son and long for his companionship (and oh, how I weep … and oh, how I long), I am also so grateful for him and all that he taught me.
And while I live in a world that tends to confuse rudeness with strength, my son and his faithful friend taught me that true strength isn't found in pushing people down, but lifting people up. And these two young boys did this – magnanimously.
About a month ago a good friend and neighbor of mine thought they lost their elementary-age son. He didn't come home on the bus and was nowhere to be found at school. With each passing hour concern turned to crisis as they put in motion a community search for a sweet child who left no trace. Family, friends and neighbors gathered at their home to help look for their son. My wife and I joined the ranks of those willing to search. Natalie and I were weepy before we drove to their home because we desperately didn't want them to experience the loss of a child. As we knocked on their door, prepared to spend whatever time and effort in search of their precious son, we were relieved to discover they had just found him. Upon hearing the news, while standing in the entrance of their home, I quietly swallowed the swelling lump in my throat.
As I drove home, I lost it. I wept … and I wept.
At first I wept because I was happy my friend found his son. But soon my tears turned toward the loss of my own son, recognizing no mortal search crew could ever find him. Yet there are times in my mind and heart that I frantically want to search for him as though he were lost in a crowd of strangers. Times that panic and sadness course through my blood like battery acid because my son is out of my sight and no longer under my protection. Those moments are almost paralyzing. There was a time in my life that I used to awake from nightmares; always finding relief that the horror show I saw in my mind was only a dream. But after my son passed away, I found just the opposite was true … every morning I awoke into a nightmare. I have since learned that nightmares can be managed.
The other day I found Wyatt in Mitchell’s room talking to him as if he were there. Wyatt had so many things to say; and I just stood in the hallway in silent awe of my youngest son who was doing his best to sort things out. He loved his older brother and just wanted Mitch to know he loved and admired him. Wyatt knows Mitch isn't there in body, but wonders sometimes if his big brother is somewhere near him in spirit. I believe, on rare occasions, such communions can take place. But it is my experience those opportunities are rare and happen for a specific purpose. Most of the time, of necessity, we must walk through life with the dim flashlight of faith. For reasons of our own spiritual growth, that is how it must be.
As I entered Mitchell’s room I could tell that Wyatt wanted to talk. So I kissed his forehead softly and sat next to him as we started to talk about his brother. We both laughed. We both cried. Together we shared our favorite memories and how much we loved and missed Mitchie. And while our hearts were hurting, they were also healing.
I have lost my son … and in that loss I have found unexpected things: I have found a deeper love for my wife, Mitch and my other children. I have also found a renewed appreciation for life and my faith. And while I am strongly buffeted by moments of panic, horror and sadness because my son is gone, I know he is not.
My task, between now and the day I am laid to rest, is to not get lost in the thick of thin things … but to do what matters most. Always.