Every time Mitch went to Shriners Hospital he would be taken to a large closet filled with unopened toys and invited to take one home. Each toy was donated to the hospital by generous people and sponsors. The hospital wanted to give kids hope that good can happen to them despite whatever burdens they carried; an enlightened philosophy that hope is medicine, too.
On one occasion the doctor was running late so Mitch was allowed to choose his gift before his checkup. Mitch was so excited to have a toy set that included a bio-mechanical saber tooth tiger that shot plasma lasers from a mountable cannon, an amphibious airplane, two cool army guys and a pylon with a penguin on top. Mitch loved penguins so that was an added bonus. As toy sets go, this was the mother lode for Mitch – and that made my heart smile.
With very few exceptions, I took time off work to be with my wife and Mitch for these hospital visits. I love them both so dearly and I never wanted either of them to feel alone. I knew that with each visit things would be getting worse and I wanted them know where my priorities were … with them.
Mitch quickly opened his gift and wanted to play with me. I sat on the other side of the examination table and we started to have battles. Suddenly the examination table sheet became a frozen snowscape and the blue cushion, icy water. Little Mitch had me be “the guy” as he lunged his saber-tooth tiger toward me. I let him gobble me up and he giggled while I writhed in pretend pain. I had so much fun playing with my son. While I might work to make a living, these are the kind of paydays I live for.
It wouldn't be many years later that I sat on the floor by Mitchell’s bed when he was home and dying. He only had a few days of life left – but we didn't know it. As we sat on the floor, Mitch opened a long, skinny drawer under his bed that was filled with Legos and brushed his hand softly through the disassembled parts pointing out his favorite pieces. He was so weak and so tired; he leaned against me to keep upright and his breaths were shallow. He wanted to play with me but he had no energy. My heart broke for my little son who wanted to live … I mean truly live. I put my arm around him and kissed his head and then suddenly Mitch said, “I love playing with you, Dad.” Tears poured from my eyes. They pour again today.
I’m just an ordinary dad who makes a million-and-one mistakes. I wish life had do-overs, for there are many things I would do differently and better. But I never stopped trying – and for that I have a certain peace of mind.
Although I have made a million and more mistakes, sometimes I get things right. And on this day, at the hospital, and again on the floor by my son’s bed, I got it right; and those are moments of such profound value they are without price.
A few months ago a friend and colleague of mine shared an interview question he heard several years ago. The question goes: “What’s one thing you know for sure?”
On the surface it might sound like a simple contemplation hardly worthy of a moment’s thought. But I have found it fascinating how deeply that question affects people: “What’s one thing you know … for sure?” Every time I've asked someone that question postures become upright, eyes search the air as if to find words and meaning. Suddenly things get real. No matter the person’s background, conversation gets deep and meaningful and thoughts invariably point to man’s search for meaning.
I remember the day of this photo so well. We took our kids to explore some unfamiliar park across the valley. We have a family tradition each summer called “Park Hopping” wherein we pack a meal and explore a park we've never visited. Knowing how easy it is to get entrenched by the routines of life we made a habit of stepping out of our comfort zones and enjoying the thrill of discovery.
On one occasion, when Wyatt was about 4 years old, we found a park we had never before seen and got settled on the grass. As I was playing with and taking photos of my kids I noticed Wyatt with his tiny hands reach into his little backpack and pull out a can of Febreze. He then started squirting a blanket we had just laid on the grass. He wanted to help out and thought Mitch might like the smell. With each squirt the wind would blow its mist in his face to which little Wyatt would quickly try and dodge. We all chuckled as this little boy who was trying to be helpful and domesticated.
I thought to myself how lucky I was to have children of my own. And as much as I love them, they are not mine… they are on loan.
A few years later, on the day of this photo, Mitch was especially affectionate toward his mother and wrapped his arms around her and leaned his head into hers. This was the day I took one of my favorite photo series of Mitch and his mom – which series now hangs in my home on a very special wall. As I browsed my photos that night I stumbled into these images and didn't appreciate until that moment the portraits of love I was lucky to capture. With tears in my eyes I then wrote in my journal “It’s quite possible that it’s altogether impossible to love your child too much.” If I felt strongly about that then, I feel even stronger about it today.
What’s one thing I know for sure? I know that I love my family – and they are more valuable to me than all the treasures of earth.
Just today I knelt by my son’s empty bed and thanked my Father for the gift of my son. I wept tears of sincere gratitude. I asked that He would let my son, who I know is also His son, know how much he means to me and that I miss him. What’s one thing I know for sure? I also know that God lives. I have seen His hand in too many things. There is no longer room for doubt; not because of what I've seen, but because of what I've felt. I know.
Although there’s a tempest of sorrow that storms in my heart, one day it will calm. And when it does I will look across the glassy waters of grief - from a place of understanding and heavenly peace.
I don’t know much about a lot of things - but there are a few things I know … and I know them for sure.
As I have been working on a book for Mitchell’s Journey, I have been scrubbing over 1 million photos that I have taken of my family since we started having children. About a month ago I almost lost a little over 800,000 photos, but miraculously that data was saved with very little corruption. A catastrophe averted; another tender mercy.
With all that has happened I am grateful that I have always been liberal in taking photos; because seemingly ordinary moments way back when are priceless today.
Without apology or a moment’s thought I captured everything: the boredom, the laughter, the tears, the drama and on few occasions extreme hardships. So, as I have been working through this sacred vault of family photos the saying “sometimes you will never know the true value of a moment until it becomes a memory” has been playing over and over in my mind. And with each photo-set I poured over that saying was reinforced.
I never delete the blurry or over/under-exposed photos, either. I've noticed, as time passes, that I begin to see magic where I once saw mistakes.
I seem to recall another saying “the only bad photo is the one you never took.” So, my advice to everyone and anyone I know is to take photos. Take them like a paparazzi. In sickness and in heath, in happiness or sorrow … photographs fuel memory … and memory fuels the heart and soul.
I have never regretted taking a photo. In fact, I worry that I didn't [and don't] take enough.
For the last few weeks I have spent my evenings looking through some of Mitchell’s more recent adventures and my heart has swelled with gladness as I was reminded this little boy had a great life. And a great life isn't purchased with money or things – but given through an abundance of love, time and attention. And that is what we tried to give him, and our other children, every day in our own way.
For many of Mitchell’s life experiences I have my sweet wife to credit. Natalie, ever the conscientious mother, was never content with allowing our kids to consume endless television or video games. She regularly set aside her own convenience to ensure they were active and trying new things. I continue to honor and learn from her every day.
As I look at this thin slice of Mitchell’s life, only 25 photos, I can’t help but know the truth of those words: “sometimes you will never know the true value of a moment until it becomes a memory.”
From holding Mitchell’s hand in the car, to sticking his head through my sunroof to feel the air on his face, to the twinkle in his eye on a swing set … there are no ordinary moments. Not one.
I am so grateful for happy memories. And because we have photos of these moments … lots of them … our joys and memories are all the richer.
My cup, while cracked and tattered by adversity, is running over.