There is a story of a man who died and was being interviewed before he entered the next phase of existence. The interviewer asked, “Tell me what you know about Jesus Christ.” The man then recited with enthusiasm and exactness the details of His life. He spoke of his birth, life, ministry and death. The interviewer then said, “Thank you for your answer. Everything you said is correct. Now, tell me what you know about Jesus Christ.” The man seemed confused, paused a moment, then began to elaborate on the finer points of His teachings. Again, his answers were precise and accurate – he didn't miss one detail. At the conclusion of the interview the man being interviewed was thanked and gently escorted out of the room. As the man was leaving he passed another person about to be interviewed and as the door was closing he turned to see this other person fall to his knees and say, “My Lord, my God.”
I don't know who wrote that original story, and I have paraphrased it the best I remember, but I believe it draws an important distinction between knowing about God and actually knowing Him.
Some resist the notion there is a God, that humans are a biological anomaly in the vast universe. Others say God and Heaven are imaginary constructs for weak-minded people. A great many believe there is more to life than meets the eye – they don’t know what, or who, why or how … they just sense there is more and they follow their impressions the best they know how. The vast religious landscape, in all its forms, seems to speak loudly that human's sense there is more. And more there certainly is.
To those who say they don't know of God lives, I understand. I have been there and have made a journey from that very place. On my own journey of the soul I have come to understand knowing God requires an ongoing conversation. For me, I have come to understand that not only must I speak with Him, more importantly I must learn to listen. He understands me better than I understand me. I had an experience about 22 year ago – and perhaps one day I may share it. But what I can say with certainty is we are not alone – and we are numbered and known.
There is a great saying that reads, “We talk about finding God as if He could get lost.” I have found He was never hiding from me – nor was He lost. Rather I realized I simply wasn't looking or that I was too afraid to see. I was lost in myself.
The last 22 years have changed me. Years of trying, studying, stumbling, talking, listening and then doing have changed me from the inside out. It didn't’ happen overnight, nor should it … because nothing worthwhile comes easily. I am still deeply flawed. I am human. But notwithstanding my weaknesses today, I am not the same person I was when I was younger – for I see life with new eyes.
Yet with all that I have come to know about God, and that He lives, I still hurt. Knowing doesn't keep my heart for aching. The truth is I miss my son terribly. There isn't a day that I don’t cry for him and there are times I experience tremendous panic that my little boy is gone. Death is hard. The death of a child is the most terrible of sorrows, beyond anything I could ever imagine or have ever known; for it stings and cuts deeply and has shaken my very soul. But despite those whirlwinds of grief and sorrow, I have a deep and abiding assurance that I will see my son again. And when I do I will weep a broken father’s tears. And in my brokenness I know I will be made whole. That is the promise of my Father and His Son.
Mitchell’s life and death, along with my own sojourn, has been a deep journey of the soul. It has broken me and sent me to my knees, bruised and weary with grief. But like a wise doctor of the soul, what God has broken wasn't meant to hurt me, but to reset my spiritual bones and strengthen my belief.
To paraphrase what a wise man once said, lest there be any confusion where I stand in my relationship with God and Jesus Christ, I don’t stand. I kneel.
This morning Natalie and I were invited to speak to 4th year medical students who are about to enter their residencies. We were asked to share our son's story and put a face to patients. We shared our perspective as parents who were thrust into a medical system that was as bewildering as it was alien.
It was hard. I had to fight my emotions; I just wanted to go in the corner, turn off the lights and cry. But cave dwelling is not an option and telling our son's story is something that must be done.
On the other side of medicine are people with families; there are mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters and many more who cling to their loved ones. We pointed to the amazing doctors who helped our son and family - people who understood the practice of medicine and the practice of compassion.
Being human, and standing on the other side of the practice of medicine, I am persuaded we must learn how to treat the body as well as care for the soul.
Because when medicine fails us, all we have left is love. And at the end of the day, I suppose that is why we practice medicine in the first place ... so we can save the ones we love.
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Note: I recorded our presentations and will post videos of them soon.
It was the end of a long day at Universal Studios in Florida. We were about half-way into Mitchell’s Make-A-Wish trip and he was having the time of his life – and so were we. Attached to my camera pack was a carabiner that tethered gifts and other souvenirs we picked up here and there – but that wasn't the real gift I carried this day. The greatest gift was my family – and that wasn't lost on me … not for a second.
As we made our way out of the park Mitch drove his scooter near me, like he always did, and reached up to hold my hand. I loved holding his hand and I yearn to do it again today.
I always dreamed of being a father. I loved my kids long before I ever laid eyes on them. As a young man I used to wonder what they would look like, the conversations we might have and the adventures we would enjoy together. While other boys were catching frogs or setting fire to empty fields, I dreamed of being a dad. Oh, I've had my share of youthful shenanigans and misadventures. I've even caught a few frogs and set a few fires. But my heart always wondered what fatherhood would be like.
I remember early in my professional career overhearing some of my older colleagues talk to their kids on the phone. I was young and single and would act like I wasn't paying attention but I was listening and I wondered what it would be like to have little kids of my own. While not an envious man, I was sometimes sorely tempted when I saw others with children. I was so excited to have kids of my own.
Twenty years later I have found my wish granted beyond my wildest dreams. Although my cup is cracked and tattered by grief and sorrow, it is overflowing with love and gratitude.
There’s a saying: “The greatest gift you can give someone is your time. Because when you give your time, you are giving a portion of your life that you’ll never get back.” I’m not always the best at this. But I try. And when I fail, I try harder the next time.
I don’t know a lot of things. But one thing I do know is when I am old and dying I won’t be reaching to hold on to car keys, fancy things or any thing. Instead I’ll be reaching to hold the ones I love. For they are my real treasures - and that won’t be lost on me. Not then. Not now. Not for a second.
About 14 years ago I started a storytelling tradition with my kids that would only require music and one’s imagination and then the universe was at our fingertips.
On my iPod are playlists that contain all manner of movie & video game scores in random order, across every genre. Often, after their teeth were brushed and my kids were tucked snugly in bed, I would turn on a playlist and narrate random stories out of thin air – and my kids were the heroes. Because the music would shape the narrative, none of us knew where we were going. Each night was an untold adventure waiting to be explored and as lights dimmed and the music began to play my children and I would be swept far away in story. Suddenly the bedroom walls crumbled to the floor and the ceiling unzipped and they saw a night sky with strange planets, or suddenly they were crossing a vast field of grass on a journey surrounded by storms that were closing in, or they were atop a glass-covered skyscraper in a mega-city about to launch their jet-pack. Wherever we went it was magical and unexpected.
Before long this practice no longer soothed my kids to sleep but excited them – instead of getting tired they would sit on the edge of their mattress, with hearts pounding, wondering what was next. Sometimes they would argue “No I want to be that guy!” It wasn't long before they began making plot requests and wanted to help shape the story.
These journeys of the mind are always fun. So much so, I even do this with my employees when we are driving long distances. Each of them take a turn telling a story on the fly in response to a song. They don’t get to practice or rehearse, they only respond to the music in real-time – and as the tempo changes, so must the story. Suddenly 100 miles feels like 5 minutes and that we've read 300 fascinating books in the blink of an eye.
I loved this tradition with my kids. I don’t do it as often as I used to. I tried it again with Ethan about 3 weeks ago. We were driving home from his lacrosse practice and I told him a story against the backdrop of song. He was quiet and inside I wondered if he thought I was being an absolute geek. At the end he looked at me, paused and said, “Dad, that was awesome.”
On the night of this photo Natalie and I had just tucked Mitch in. Faithful Marlie snuggled near his feet and he was set. Then he asked me in a soft voice, “Dad, will you tell me a story?” My eyes instantly filled with tears and my throat swelled. “I would love to tell you a story, Mitch.”
I ran to the next room to get a speaker and iPod and for the next 10 minutes Mitch and I went on adventure together. Once again, the ceiling and walls fell away and we were transported to a magical place. We started in an ancient forest where the trees could whisper secrets of a time long gone; we could see the night sky and a fabled moon that was only visible through the forest trees. We traveled vast distances together and Mitch was the hero. All along I kept thinking how in real life this little boy was an even greater hero to me. In life, Mitch couldn't jump great distances nor did he wield physical strength like he did in my stories, but in every way that mattered he was stronger and nobler than the sum total of every character I could imagine.
As my story concluded I knelt by Mitchell and told him, “Son, even though you were the hero in this story, you are my real-life hero, too. You are the most amazing young boy, Mitch. I love you.” He asked why I was crying and I told him it was because sometimes parents have so much love in their hearts for their children they don’t know how to express it, and they cry. I told Mitch that was the magic of being a parent: you create the most amazing miracle of life and watch it grow, develop and become. Parents cry because they love; and love is the most magical power on earth. Love heals and protects, it renews and forgives, it lifts and defends … love gives meaning to life. To know love is to know God.
This was the last story I told Mitch. Not many days would pass before everything in our world began to unravel and we would experience the most sorrowful story of all. A story that would break my heart. Forever.
I have traveled the universe and back with my children and we have visited every age we could imagine, even the age before time. I have discovered parenthood is the greatest adventure of all. It’s a story that needs no soundtrack to be told; a story that frightens and enlightens us … and a story of love and service that never gets old.
I pray that at the end of my days, when my story is ended and I take that final journey to that place beyond the hills, that my son will be the first person I see. And I will run to him and give him a father's embrace. For I love him. I miss his kind soul, I long to see his sweet face.