I was blessed with an opportunity to speak at a Women’s Conference this weekend about Mitchell and his Journey. As we are fast approaching the anniversary of his passing my heart has been especially heavy and emotions have been all over the place. Speaking about my son was hard to do, but necessary.
My wife and children came to listen and I was so touched by their love and support. As they sat in the front row I couldn't help but look upon their faces and feel deep love and gratitude for each of them. I have been blessed beyond my wildest dreams to have each of them in my life.
During my talk I shared a few metaphors that to me represented much of Mitchell’s Journey, and now my own. The first was the abyss of which I have so often written about. The second is about my wilderness, an essay I have yet to post. The third was my Everest, some of which I’ve already posted. And fourthly, a heavenly constellation of tender mercies, another essay I have yet to post. I will post those things in due time.
Honestly, I don't know why I keep writing about little Mitch. I can't stop thinking about him - and I don't think I ever will. I don't write to wallow or fixate on my sorrows. I don't do it to draw attention. I suppose I'm trying to cope with the loss of my son by sorting things out and putting my heart back together … and there are pieces everywhere. Often when I sit down to write I say to myself at the end “Well, I didn't see that one coming.”
For me this journey has been as much about discovery as anything.
I am still learning, and I ever will. While my heart is broken, my faith is stronger still. It matters not how deep the abyss or dark and frightening the wilderness. There are summits to reach and heavens that speak, “Keep going, my child. Press on.”
Mitch followed me wherever I went. He was my shadow … my dear child and sweet little friend. He seemed to always find comfort being around me and in his absence I have come to realize how much comfort I took in being around him.
Last summer we had some family over for a BBQ . Everyone was inside or up the hill in our back yard talking. I found myself at the grill doing what dad’s do and I turned to the place Mitch usually sat while I cooked and he wasn't there. Never a chair seemed so empty. I started to cry.
I took this photo a summer prior as Mitch sat with me while I prepared dinner at the grill one hot summer evening. It was a perfect night and I enjoyed listening to Mitch talk to me about his plans for the future. I normally never take selfies because I am far more interested in what I see in other people than I am in seeing myself. But this time I made an exception because I was with my sweet boy and I wanted a photo of the two of us. I almost didn't take this – but I am so glad I did.
I think I am beginning to understand the deeper meaning of the scriptural passage “the valley of the shadow of death.” Over the years I have heard many recite that passage as though they were words from a hallmark card. But I have come to learn that all of ancient scripture are not only accounts of mankind’s dealings with God, but a record of real sorrows, what we’re to learn from them and why we suffer. Deep inside that poetic prose are words that carry heavy meaning, borne of real consequence and real sorrows.
Death indeed has cast its shadow. Shadows, by their very definition limit ones view – we cannot see what happens over there. And in death’s towering shadow I find myself on a journey through the valley of grief … a valley that is deep in the shadows … deep in grief. It is a place where I stumble and a place where I weep as my heart and mind search for my son and that unspeakable peace.
I miss my son, my shadow. I love him. I weep for him. And as I find my way through the valley of grief and sorrow, deep in the shadow of death, I am not afraid … for I know God lives. I know He loves us. And while being mortal we may be required to suffer – there is a divine reason for all that we experience. If we look inward and upward we can learn and grow … even through the dark shadows and deep valleys that only God knows.
When my wife and I learned we were expecting our first child I remember being excited at first, then shocked and terrified. In my mind and heart I thought “I’m just a boy myself … how can I possibly be qualified to raise a child?” I was sober and shaken. Having come from a large family, I always wanted children of my own – but I was in my early 20’s and wasn't sure I was mature enough to take on the most important job I will ever have in this life: to raise a child.
But that fear only lasted about 5 minutes. Maybe 15.
With each child in the delivery room I became more emotional because I knew that tiny baby swaddled in cloth, eyes barely open and breathing for the first time, would teach me about love and sacrifice and what it means to be a father and a child. By the time we had our youngest son, Wyatt, I wept in the delivery room because I knew what I was in for … and my heart was overflowing with love, gratitude and anticipation.
This Thanksgiving our kitchen table will have one less person seated there. Mitch always wanted to sit by me, and I always wanted to sit by him. He always reached over to hold my hand while we ate and that melted my heart. His absence will be profoundly felt. I know I will smile … and I know I will cry. But most of all, I will be grateful. I will thank my God for all that I once had, all that I still have, and all that I will yet have.
This image is so special to me because it is the second-to-last family portrait we have. The last was taken just before Mitch passed away; and that photo is even more sacred. Though both images tug tenderly at my broken heart, they remind me I have much to be thankful for. They remind me of life’s greatest treasure.
And one day, when I see my son again, my gratitude will be so great there won’t be room enough in the universe to contain it.
" ........ Somewhere on the other side of this hell is the Heavenly promise of peace and reunion – but that’s a lifetime away and [learning to cope with] death and separation from our young boy who [wanted] so much to live, cuts us deeply. It’s easy to talk of God and life after death in Sunday school, but to come face to face with it is [bewildering].
But alas, we are grateful to know there is life after life ... and we have seen tender mercies in our family, even in the midst of our pain. While there are many today who have abandoned belief in God, we stand resolute … with an absolute knowledge of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. We have seen Him work in our lives; warning us, preparing us, and lifting us when we hardly have the strength to stand. We remain grateful for the Atonement of Jesus Christ and its healing, transcendent power. As C.S. Lewis once said of suffering, “Heaven, once attained, will work backwards and turn even [agony] into [glory].” This we know.
As we process all that is happening and the tender pains of losing our precious child, we have felt a quiet whisper that Mitchell was never really ours in the first place, but he is on loan to us from the Father of us all. He, like each of us, will return to Heavenly Father with a perfectly executed life experience filled with hardship and happiness; all designed to refine our souls for greater purposes.
*I took this photo of Mitchell in the fall of 2012. I added some paint textures to prepare to print on a canvas.*