Last October, just after I wrote the essay NIGHTFALL I sat at my computer and began to chart some of the more significant tender mercies we have received along Mitchell’s Journey. As I began to read my journals, meditate, and prayerfully reflect on my life my eyes were opened and I began to see like never before. What’s more, realized Mitchell’s Journey started long before he was even born. In fact, 30 years prior to his birth things were put in motion that would directly prepare me for this hardship.
Were you to download this image and zoom in you would more easily see the constellations of tender mercies. The lines between the stars are purposeful and illustrate the interrelationship between them and it is largely chronological, from left to right. The color of the stars is also purposeful and has special meaning.
I have removed the labels for each star and will not share the details of these tender mercies because they are sacred and for me alone to know. I can say that each one of these events is absolutely real. It was only upon stepping back, allowing my spiritual eyes to adjust and to see the larger picture that I began to discern the majesty of God and all that He has done for my son and family.
I have now printed this chart on a large glossy plot and it now hangs in my home office as a reminder that if God was in the details of my life then, He is surely in the details of my life today.
So where to go from here? I don’t know. All I know is the sun will rise tomorrow, my son will still be gone and my heart will still be heavy with grief. I also know, no matter how dark, difficult and lonely this journey may have felt at times, I have never been alone.
I used to stand at the edge of an abyss with its mouth yawned, inching to devour my son. I now sit on the shore of a vast ocean peering into its infinite horizon. It is night, clouds lay low and are sparsely scattered and the heavens are clear to see. There is no storm in my heart this day and I can feel a gentle breeze, as if a whisper that all is well. As I look upward I can see these heavenly constellations that tell me I have never been alone. I must cross the waters now – and that is a journey, too.
Over the last few weeks I have felt a certain peace come into my life. It is unlike anything I've ever felt. Surely there have been tears and moments of profound sorrow, but there is an ebbing tide of light that is washing over me and filling my soul. I don’t entirely understand it, but I am grateful just the same … for that is another tender mercy, an evidence of God’s love.
With each day I am learning to adjust to life without my son. It isn't easy – but it is happening. I also have a lovely wife and 3 remaining children who will continue to receive the same love I have always offered them, and Mitch. That is not lost on me and I find great joy in them every single day.
There will be difficult days ahead, no doubt, and I will write of them. But I will also write of our happy times and discoveries we made along Mitchell’s Journey – way back when to now.
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.
About seven years ago my in-laws invited our family to join them on a trip to Hawaii. Mitch was little, Wyatt was a toddler, and Laura-Ashley and Ethan were young and full of energy. The trip was a gift, but the experience of spending time together was an even greater gift. Today, the memory of that time together is the greatest gift.
Mitchell’s faithful Aunt Sonya came, too. Whenever possible she put Mitch under her wing and helped him enjoy life’s treasures before the hour grew too late. She knew the troubles that would soon come to our son in a way we did not. Her profession gave her a unique vantage point as she saw the biological horror show of DMD first-hand. She was careful to never frighten us but I could sometimes tell by the look in her eyes she was holding back a little – she knew the storms that lie ahead. But we had today.
We spent the better part of the day swimming, making castles and rolling in the sand. Grandpa even helped Mitch catch a few waves on a boogie board. He loved that. Mitch was so cute and playful and was always concerned about getting sand in his cute little bum. The water was warm as a gentle bath and I finally understood why some call Hawaii a paradise. As the day was yawning to an end I noticed Sonya and Mitch on the shoreline watching the sun as it slowly set. Mitch loved sunsets. I remember thinking to myself when I took this photo that Mitch was lucky to have Sonya. And I thought to myself how lucky all of us were to have him.
I wonder what my son was thinking as he looked into the ocean, as far as the eye can see. I can still hear the surf crashing softly and the ocean wind as it whispers through the palms.
As I was meditating over this moment earlier this morning my wife came into my office and handed me a health insurance form to sign. I asked what it was for and she said it was to verify the termination of Mitchell’s coverage. In an instant my hands began to shake and my heart sank to the floor as we took one more step into our new, painful reality.
As far as the eye can see,
grief stretches vast, and deep
even to infinity.
But there is more to grief
than pain and sorrow,
it is the longing to see my son
on some tomorrow.
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.