I know not the sorrows tomorrow may bring.
But today I've found peace. Today my heart sings.
For my child happened. A miracle of life and love.
A blessing from God and the heavens above.
Though storms of grief surely will come.
I look to the light. And I run.
It was late August and we somehow managed to survive our first summer without our son. Saturday morning had come and it was a beautiful, almost dream-like day when we went to visit out son’s place of rest. A few moments prior to this photo I captured Marlie sitting at the foot of Mitchell’s headstone staring at it. After a few moments Natalie quietly sat by Marlie. This little girl, this furry friend to our son and family, looked up at this broken-hearted mommy.
I know dogs are intuitive for I have seen their intuition with my own eyes. This same puppy, much smaller at the time, never left Mitchell’s side while he was sick. And the night Mitch passed she curled around his head as if to comfort him – like a mother would cradle her baby. Now there was another person that needed comfort – a mother who was dying on the inside. I wondered at this moment what Marlie was thinking – did she know that Natalie was in pain? Sometimes I think so.
I sensed Marlie missed Mitch because I would often find her laying on his bed as if to wait for him to come home. She would lay on his pillow in the same way she did when Mitch passed away. I was always saddened to see that.
A few weeks after Mitch passed away a dear friend of our family and mother to one of Mitchell’s best friends, Carter (who I will write about soon), approached us and asked if she could start a 5K run in honor of Mitch called “Miles for Mitchell”.
We were so touched by her thoughtfulness. Natalie loves to run - it is her way of coping. Before Mitchell passed away he said in a soft, almost breathless voice, “Hey mom, you can take Marlie running with you every day. I think she would like that.” Mitch wished he could run like other kids but his muscles were too weak. Natalie kissed Mitch softly and said, “I sure will. I will run with Marlie.”
Natalie has kept her promise and runs every day with this sweet little dog.
We were overwhelmed by the love and support from our local community, neighbors and friends last year. They rallied to help us in a time of crisis and great need – and we were deeply humbled and taken to our knees. That run, Miles for Mitchell, did so much for Natalie’s heart on her path to healing. For she was surrounded by people who cared, who loved her and felt after her broken heart. I suspect this year's run will do the same for her. And that makes my heart glad - for she hurts, too.
For those who want to attend our second annual Miles for Mitchell, the run will be held May 3rd. You can find more details on www.facebook.com/MilesForMitchell or you can register here: http://tinyurl.com/ka5qu89.
Last year the run was aimed at helping our family pay off medical bills and cover funeral expenses – for which we were deeply grateful.
This year, and every year hereafter, we will run to raise awareness for DMD and its catastrophic outcomes, to support Mitchell’s Journey, and help others who hurt.
I loved it when Mitch sat on my shoulders as a little boy. When I look at this photo I can almost feel his little hands on my face again and my heart is awash with love. But then the tears come – I cannot stop them – and they wet my face and remind me of what once was, but is no longer. I still close my eyes and reach to feel his little hands on my face sometimes.
Sometimes.
On this day Mitch asked to sit on my shoulders so he could peer over the fence in our back yard and wave goodbye to his big sister who was walking to school. The fence was just tall enough that I couldn't see over it, not even on my tiptoes. But once on my shoulders, Mitch could see the brave new world just over the fence. A world he could always hear but couldn't see. Once on my shoulders he would tell me the things he saw. He would yell out as if to say “Dad, this is awesome! If you could see what I see!”
“A bus!” he would say excitedly. “A twuck!” with another excited burst. To little Mitch the world just over the fence was a smorgasbord of sights and sounds that captured his imagination. When he saw his sister come into view he would bounce up and down on my shoulders and point to her yelling, “I see her! I see her! I wuv you Ash!”
Though I couldn't see his smile with my eyes I could feel his smile with his hands on my face – and my heart grew a foot or two. I then grabbed his hands and pressed them into my face as if to hug him. These are the moments I live for. These are the moments that warm my heart and calm my soul.
My sweet wife, who recognized I was always behind the camera and almost never seen in a scrapbook, took some photos of us that morning. Photos of Mitch and me are rare by comparison to the number of photos I took of everyone else. So I treasure these photos with my son greatly.
We would discover a few weeks from this photo Mitch had a catastrophic muscle-wasting disease that would hurt him, cause great hardship, and eventually take his life. I cannot count the nights I sat at our kitchen table weeping for my son, reading everything I could to understand DMD and trying to prepare for the inevitable journey through the wastelands of grief and sorrow.
I was unaware we were nearing the end of an era for our family. An era of relative peace and ease; an era free of the sorrows we would soon know and then carry the remainder of our days. Oh, I had become acquainted with the sorrows of death – for my father passed when I was 19. But a father is no son; and losing my child has broken me in ways I never imagined.
My son’s journey has taken me on a most unexpected path – a path I was scarcely prepared to sojourn. Were I given the choice I would have taken any path but this. For I have nearly drown in a sea of sorrow, I have stumbled through my wilderness of grief, and I have peered into the depths of the abyss. The loss of my son has become my Everest and I intend on reaching the summit.
Perhaps after a trillion of my own tears have fallen to the earth, when my weary legs and broken heart are about to collapse … when I reach the summit of my Everest … perhaps, then, I will begin see what Mitch sees. A brave new world. A world I can hear with my heart – but I cannot now see.
Marlie, who once brought great comfort to Mitch, now brings a measure of comfort to us.
Only a small measure, but a measure nonetheless.
For that I am grateful.
