A year had passed since we learned of Mitchell’s diagnosis and our hearts were still tender. It was mid-July and the hot summer air wrapped our bodies like a warm sweater you couldn't take off. Only the shade of a tree, a soft breeze or a scattered cloud that covered the sun would offer a moment of relief. The sound of insects filled the air. I couldn't help but think of those endless summers I came to know and love during my own childhood; where the woods were vast and deep and perfectly camouflaged the forts we made of scrap wood and plastic sheets. Those summers I played with my friends deep into twilight. To this day I can almost hear the laughter of my friends or the voice of my mother calling me home.
The laughter I heard in my mind from yesteryear slowly faded to the back of my mind as the sounds of Ethan & Mitch came back into focus … and my heart was glad. Ethan absolutely loved his little brother, and Mitch loved him. I sat on the grass as these two little brothers romped around like little boys do. I remembered being just like them. In many ways, I still am. At one point Mitch spontaneously grabbed his older brother and kissed his cheek. Ethan instinctively wrapped his arms around him and hugged Mitch with all the love he had. Suddenly I thought to myself, “Now this is a life worth living.”
Although the future frightened us, we made a conscious effort to let tomorrow be – for we understood that to give in to worry and stress would rob us of today – and today was all we could count on. It wasn't easy. It took practice. But each day we became a little better at it. Each day we got a little better at living. A little better at loving.
It was about this same time in my life I was having a conversation with a dear friend about hardships and our experience with Mitch. He said, almost in passing, “Life is tough. And then your chocolates melt.” Although he wasn't trying to say anything profound, I was taken aback. I quickly wrote it down and committed it to memory. Bruce Newbold, my dear friend who has also become teacher to me, made a profound acknowledgement that life is hard and sometimes it gets even harder.
Yet despite my sorrows, life is still worth living.
When Mitch was 3 years old he was given a death sentence. My wife and I could have wasted away our days in fear of the inevitable. But at some point we realized life is also fatal – and none of us can escape it. The point of life isn’t that we escape death, but that we learn how to live it while we have it. And to live a life of love and service is life worth living.
As I said in a post last December, losing my son has been the bitterest of cups; it has turned my life upside down, but right-side up.
It isn't possible to count the many pieces of my heart that are still broken and scattered about – for they are without number and seem to stretch out for miles … even to infinity. But I am picking up each tender piece as I find them and washing them with my tears and putting them back where they belong.
And while I search to heal my heart, I have discovered each time I love or serve someone my heart heals a little – and that makes life worth living, too.
At about 8:15 last night we had a special visitor at our door. This was the woman from Alaska I spoke of in my funeral address. We were excited to meet her in person, for she played an unexpected but important role during our darkest hours. Once a lamp unto our feet, as the path we tread was dark and treacherous, this compassionate woman was now a light to our weary hearts.
After we spoke for while we showed her Mitchell’s room which has been relatively untouched since the time of his passing. I stood in deep reverence of these two mothers who loved and lost their boys. While my heart cries out in agony over the loss of my son, I recognize that a mother’s pain is different and deeper than that of a father’s. For they gave their child life and carried them in ways only a mother knows.
A little over a year ago I sat at the foot of this very bed, trembling and in tears as my son was sick and dying. It was in this very place we received emails from this inspired woman who offered insight and council that came from her own experience.
It seemed rather poetic that this woman, once a stranger to us; a woman who spoke peace to our hearts during the darkest time in our lives was finally in that same room. The thought of such a reunion had never entered my heart or crossed my mind. Yet there she was, once again, like a gift from heaven.
Why do we suffer? Why do we stumble and fall? So we can learn the deeper meaning of love, compassion and service. For without such, we wouldn't know much at all.
My heavy heart once hung by a single tattered thread. Now it hangs by a thousand threads of light. A thousand tender mercies … a thousand things that give me sight.
I have had many, many people reach out to me in the last 48 hours, each carrying heavy burdens of grief of their own, trying to make sense of their own sorrows. My heart goes out to everyone who hurts – because I hurt, too. While I don’t repost my essays, I felt it would be useful to share this again because of the many private inquiries regarding my thoughts on God and suffering.
The following is my original post:
Mitchell’s final days were so very hard. We had learned that excessive sleeping was a sign that death was near, and he began to sleep more and more. Perhaps what makes my son’s passing additionally hard for me is there was no formal goodbye. It wasn't like he was boarding an airplane, or car, or a boat – as if to go on a long journey. There was no clear demarcation where I could give him a hug and look him in the eye and say “This is it, son. Oh, how I love you. Thank you for being such a good boy and I am so proud of you. I’ll see you soon.” He was awake and talking one moment, then he just drifted back to sleep and never woke up. By the time we realized what was happening, it was too late, and he was unable to open his eyes or talk. I know he heard us the night he passed because he could squeeze our hands in answer to our questions. And that night we did tell him we loved with all of our hearts as we wet his hands and face with our tears. But my heart and soul wanted more.
For reasons I do not understand, this was my son’s journey and I wish with all of my heart I could have taken that journey for him. But such a path was not part of God’s plan for my son or my family. My son’s death has taken my own heart, a heart that already cried at commercials or subtle acts of kindness, down a path that has caused it to be tenderer, still. My broken boy broke me. But I am putting myself back together once piece at a time.
A colleague said to me recently “There are two types of people in this world: those who admit to being broken, and those who don’t.” A poignant reminder that we are all mortal and there are always broken things to mend.
When it comes to the death of my father or my son’s disability and death, I have never experienced anger. I’m told anger is a necessary part of the grief cycle – but I feel no anger. At least for me, I have accepted those hardships as something from which I am meant to learn. What’s more, what does anger toward God profit a man? I have seen what the fire of anger can do to one’s self and to others; it consumes and destroys. Water, on the other hand, renews and gives life.
So while my soul trembles with grief and sorrow, I don’t shake my fists at God; angry at the burden we must bear. Instead, I kneel before Him and ask for mercy as I stumble to learn what I must. And while I weep because I miss my son terribly, my heart is also glad that I was blessed to be his father. Some of the greatest blessings come at the greatest price.
As often as possible I will trade fire for water; anger for tears. Instead of scorching the soil of my soul, I will water it with my tears and hope to grow.
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.