The funeral director told us it was time to close the casket and suddenly I gasped for air and tried to hold back my tears - but nothing could stay my sorrow. This was it. I wasn't ready to look upon my son for the last time – to say goodbye to his little body, his sweet face … this little boy I used to cuddle, hug and laugh with. My youngest son, Wyatt stood beside me and watched me in grief and sorrow tuck his older brother one last time.
I carefully pulled Mitchell’s favorite blanket up to his chin, like I did every night, and said “I love you little boy … my sweet son. Oh, how I love you.” I cried a father’s tears … and until that moment I had tasted no deeper tears. I had never known so great a sorrow as to say goodbye to my child. Sweet Mitch trusted that I could keep him safe from harm. He thought there wasn't anything I couldn't do. When he looked at me he saw superman. When I looked in the mirror I saw a broken man. But I tried. God knows how hard I tried. But I was only human.
Months later, my oldest son, Ethan, came into my office while I was writing an entry for Mitchell’s Journey. I was unprepared for the interruption and my eyes were red and filled with tears. Ethan asked, “Dad, are you okay?” I immediately tried to be superman and put on a brave face, wiping my eyes and said, “Yeah, I’m okay” … as if to suggest all was well and that I was simply rubbing my tired eyes. But Ethan was discerning and knew better … I could tell by his expression he knew I was grieving.
In that moment I thought to myself, “What good do I do my children when I pretend?” I realized I do him no favors when I am not being real. I paused a moment then looked Ethan in the eye and said, “Actually, I’m not okay. But I’m okay. Do you know what I mean?” Relief washed over his face and I could tell he not only understood but that he was glad I was being real … as if it gave him permission to be real, too. I wanted my son to know that it is okay to hurt … that you can be “okay” but “not okay” and that’s okay.
Ethan and I talked about Mitch for a while and he shared some of his sorrows about losing his younger brother. We both cried together. I hugged Ethan and let him know how much I loved him – every bit as much. We crossed a threshold with grief that day. My son knew it was okay to hurt and that pretending otherwise serves nobody, not even ourselves. To the contrary, we do a great disservice when we pretend.
I had a moment of truth a few years prior when I read the words of an 18th Century French writer who observed, “We discover in ourselves what others hide from us, and we recognize in others what we hide from ourselves.” When I read those words I vowed to retire my masks and get real.
I've tried to have similar exchanges with my other kids. My children, each unique, process their grief differently. And that’s okay, too. In all things I want to be real with them – for it is when we’re real that we become equipped to deal with real life.
I am still walking on Jupiter. The gravity of grief is great. The air is thin and my tears fall as generously as spring rains. Yes, I have moments of sweet relief and happiness is returning – but grief and sorrow linger. I cannot run from sorrow any more than I can run from my shadow on a sunny day. I must learn to live with love and sorrow – there seems no other way.
I’m okay … but I’m not okay … and that’s okay. That is part of being human.
Ever since Mitch was a toddler he loved to feel the wind in his face. He loved riding 4-wheelers more than he liked a Sippy Cup filled to the top with undiluted juice - and he loved juice. It was as if his soul wanted to drink in every moment of mortality possible, before it was too late.
I took this photo a few weeks after Mitchell’s diagnosis. We drove to my mother’s ranch in Southern Utah to tell her the news in person. I cried that night, and many nights thereafter.
During this trip I remember looking at my sweet little boy in disbelief – wondering if hospital staff made a clerical error and Mitchell’s diagnosis belonged to someone else. Everything seemed impossible. Impossible because he looked so healthy, there was no way he had a fatal disease. Impossible because I was scarcely prepared to be a father, how could I possibly care for someone so sick? It was impossible because my heart was already tender.
I will never forget this moment one mid-summer afternoon – it was the most perfect of days. Mitch screamed out with excitement as his mother helped him drive a mini-4wheeler as fast as it could go. It wasn't all that fast, but to Mitch, he may as well have been going the speed of light. I couldn't help but notice how Mitch would place his hand half on the handlebar (to feel like he was steering) and half over her hand (to feel the safety of his Mother’s touch) – he was so happy. I remember also looking at my sweet wife who was having such a good time watching her little son enjoy the thrill of the moment.
I wished at this moment my sweet wife could see herself through my eyes. This dear woman who carried a heavy and broken heart for her son yet put on a smile so as not to frighten him was stronger and more beautiful than she knew. This loving mother who often wondered and worried if she was doing it right was doing things perfectly. She did it right, not because she didn't make mistakes, but because she loved her children – and love nourishes. Love heals.
If ever my wife has a moment of self-doubt, and we all have them (heaven knows I have plenty), I want to point to this photo and say “Look at the life you gave our boy! I love and honor you. Thank you.” If only she could see herself through my eyes.
I borrow the words of Paul Brownlaw who once wrote, “There shall never be another quite so tender, quite so kind as the patient little mother, nowhere on this earth you'll find her affection duplicated.”
Such is true of every mother who loves her child, and the world is greatly blessed because of it.
A very kind follower from the UK recently asked if she could write an article about Mitchell's Journeyin THE HYPE MAGAZINE. We were so touched by her thoughtfulness and desire to share Mitchell's story. Her article was beautiful and tender and we were humbled to read her words.
This is her article: http://issuu.com/hypeprivate/docs/shrewsbury_hype_7
Pages 31-32
The days were long but the nights were even longer. With the prospect of days to live, weeks if he was lucky, we did our best to keep our chins up and held our tears at bay for times he was napping. Sometimes we had to excuse ourselves from the room and walk down the long half-lit hospital halls and weep because we couldn't contain our sorrow any longer.
To Mitch we were the strong parents he knew and trusted … ever filled with answers, healing balms and love. But inside we were children ourselves frightened of what tomorrow might bring; frightened by the invisible monster that wasn't just under his bed, but in it.
The doctors had stabilized Mitch with Milrinone, a drug that helped his weary heart find rest. After a few days they wanted to see if Mitch could be weaned from the drug. It would take a little over an hour before the effects of being taken off the drug made manifest. We simply had to wait and see.
Just as the doctors took Mitch off Milrinone my children came to visit – which was a welcomed distraction. My mother, who had come to care for our kids at home, sat on what appeared to be a rolling chair. If you weren't paying much attention you wouldn't notice it was in fact a portable toilet. As we sat and talked for a while Mitch started to sing a line from a popular YouTube video “Sittin On Tha Toilet” – which song he loved to laugh at and sing. We instantly burst into giggles because of the way sweet Mitch was drawing attention to his grandma. He was so observant, so very funny. For the next hour Mitch was smiling and we played word games and laughed together.
We had just taken a bedside family photo (seen in my most recent post OUR SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS). Mitchell’s sense of humor was in full bloom and I was startled by his intelligence and his renewed sense of comedy. We enjoyed a moment of pure bliss – the stuff rich lives are made of. Mitch was off the drug and seemed to be doing fine. Could it be? Perhaps this was a glimmer of hope; maybe the doctors had it all wrong … maybe they made a mistake and his heart wasn't really failing. For a moment we wondered if a catastrophe had been avoided … that perhaps we could resume life as usual as an invisible family who just wanted to be together.
Then, in the blink of an eye something changed and it seemed as if a dark cloud rolled between us and the brittle bliss we knew moments earlier. Mitchell’s countenance changed and tears filled his eyes. In an effort to lift his spirits, Laura-Ashley handed him a cupcake she earlier made for her little brother. Mitch wanted nothing to do with food. It was clear he was crashing and getting very sick in a big hurry. We immediately told the doctors to resume the medicine so our boy would feel better. Our hopes for the future were dashed.
Suddenly I saw with horrifying clarity the pebble upon which Mitchell’s life clung. The abyss that was inching to devour our son finally had its mouth gaping wide open and roaring swallow him up. I fought back the tears as I saw my little boy suffer. Inside I was a little boy, too – I was helpless to save him and desperate to trade places with him.
Two days later we would make our final journey home so Mitch could live out the remainder of his days in the comfort of his own room and in the arms of our love. Soon, Mitchell’s weary, valiant heart would grow fainter until it suddenly stopped. And we would find ourselves with weary hearts of another kind. Over the coming months and year our hearts, which carried the burden of grief and sorrow became wearier still.
I suppose it’s only human to wonder why a little boy who was so innocent and pure was made to suffer and die. Might it be better he live a full life and do much good in the world? What does God have in mind? What does He see that I do not? Surely I cannot comprehend the infinite with my finite mind – but I have a spiritual assurance that transcends mortal experience. Still others blame God for their sorrows and turn their already weary hearts away from the very thing that can truly give us rest.
At least for me, I have come to realize it is more productive to stop asking “why” … to dispense with the idea that I am entitled to a life free of sorrows, as if I should be the world’s only exception. Rather I ask “what am I to learn from this?” Perhaps when I lack insight it’s because I’m not asking the right questions or I’m not listening. The invitation to us mere mortals is to seek and we shall find - to knock and doors will be opened to us. But we must do the seeking, we must do the knocking.
Spiritual assurances aside, my heart remains weary with sorrow. I miss my little boy … I see his empty bed and little shoes and I weep. Though I know Mitch is in that place beyond the hills, I want him here with me … in my living room and within my loving embrace. Grief is such an inferior word.
My heart is weary with sorrow, my soul in need of rest. Though I stumble over pebbles, each day I do my best. While I travel Mitchell’s Journey, without him by my side, I can see the path now … I can see with Heaven’s eyes.