A few years ago I attended a Parent/Teacher Conference with Mitch and Natalie. I did my best to attend as many as possible because I wanted my son to know that I loved him and I would always be there for him. Mostly, I wanted Mitch to know I was his biggest fan.
It was about 7PM on an ordinary evening. The school was filled with young students each eager to show their parents their world. Paper art projects proudly attached to the walls, the smell of glue and crayons brought back vivid memories and feelings from my own childhood. As we entered Mitchell’s class room he shyly pointed to his desk with his name badge. It wasn't spectacular, and it looked like everyone else’s, but it was his and he was proud of it. And I was proud of him.
We were then greeted by his teacher and invited to sit at a tiny elementary school table and sit in even tinier chairs. Mitch quietly giggled seeing his big dad sit on a chair that may as well have been a thimble. I love my son and I miss the sound of his giggles.
Mitch, with eager eyes and a humble disposition, sat between my wife and me as we began to learn about his progress. I’ll never forget his sweet face, still bearing remnants of a milk mustache from his after school snack along with a chapped bottom lip. The very sight of him reminded me what goodness looked like.
As his teacher began to discuss how he was doing in class I could tell how much it meant to Mitch whenever she was complimentary of him. Sure there were things to work on, but she celebrated his success and helped Mitch feel good about himself – and because of that Mitch believed in himself.
My heart swelled with gratitude for this educator who understood her job wasn't to teach concepts, but to teach people. She knew the difference. Because of that, she knew the most important thing she could do for her students was to help them believe in themselves – that they were each uniquely capable and absolutely awesome.
I had a pivotal moment many years ago in high school when my teacher (Mrs. Osa) recognized something in me. I wasn't prepared for her observation – but in that moment she helped me believe in me. She lit a spark in my soul and my life was forever changed. Mrs. Osa, wherever you are, thank you. The echo of your belief in me is still felt, even 25 years later.
So, as I watched my tender son, a little boy who wasn't as strong as the other kids, a little boy who wondered if he would ever amount to much … and suddenly I saw a spark in his eye and a new light in his countenance. Mitch began to grow with confidence. My heart was overflowing with love and gratitude then, and it overflows today.
I wonder how often I've missed opportunities to lift and build others because I said to myself, “What difference will it make?” This night with my son, and that unexpected moment 25 years ago reminded me what a difference makes. The difference I’m talking about is often so small it can be mistaken for something not worth doing: a little smile in the hall, a compliment, recognition, appreciation for someone on or a simple word of encouragement or love … it makes a difference.
A small difference can make all the difference.
A few days after Mitchell passed away we received a very personal letter from Representative John Knotwell expressing his sincere condolences. I remember reading his heart-felt letter and being moved to tears because he, a stranger to us, cared so much. He wasn't looking for recognition. But he, being a father, recognized our hurt and felt after us … and he served us by mourning with us.
Once again I was on the receiving end of that magnificent doctrine of mourning with those that mourn. So many of you have done the same for us – and we are deeply grateful.
Fast-forward a year (today) and Rep. Knotwell, who still cared, visited our home with two memorials in honor of our fallen son: a state flag that had been flown in memory of Mitch near the day of his passing and an official citation from the state recognizing our son, his journey and legacy. As I read the words of the citation I was so moved by its thoughtfulness – I fought back tears. There was nothing perfunctory about it. That state document was heart-felt and very much in touch.
We visited a while and I could tell by the questions he asked and the comments he made that he cared. After he left my home I went to my office and quietly shut my door and had a deep moment … a moment of grief and gratitude.
My wife and I want to thank Speaker Rebecca Lockhart and Rep. John Knotwell for recognizing our son and family. Though we wish with all our heart we were living out our lives under the canopy of anonymity, we are so grateful for the empathy, service, and goodness of others. For all of you who reach out in love, know that you make heavy hearts a little lighter.
Today I was reminded that people are good. Very good.
Yesterday we said goodbye to my mother and step-father after our annual Easter trip in Southern Utah. Visiting them has become a much-treasured tradition we sort of stumbled into by accident a few years ago. Aside from home, this was the place Mitch loved to be above all other places.
Like a powerful breeze, as if from a storm, I felt my memories press against me. Sometimes I had to brace myself to keep from falling. Every tree, every rock and shadow brought back vivid memories of my son there. I could almost hear his voice in the distance. So rich are my memories sometimes it feels as though I can turn around and see my son smiling at me. But he is not here, nor there. And I will not see him again – at least not in this life – save only in my dreams.
I cannot step foot in this place and not get lost in memory. Nostalgia pushes and tugs at my heart reminding me what once was. I also feel deep appreciation for what still is. Mostly, I feel gratitude that I had my son in the first place – no matter how much losing him hurts.
Memory can be beautiful or frightful: like hot coals aglow, I can gather them to warm my soul or, if not properly handled, they can hurt and damage me.
I know I’m on the path to healing because visiting this place wasn’t as painful as it was last year. For last year I cried. And I cried. And I cried. This year I still cried – but not near as much. Like a healing wound, my heart was still tender and it will ever be so.
After we said our goodbyes I took a photo of an incoming storm. Mitch loved weather. This was the kind of thing he would have noticed and captured with his iPod. I took this shot and thought of him. Were he here, Mitch would have taken this same shot and thought of me.
Soon I will turn Mitchell’s iPod on and explore the world through his eyes: the photos he took and the movies he made are waiting to be explored. Until now I haven’t had the courage to go there. I have been afraid, for new grief lies in wait there. It is sure to be a painful place to visit.
Though my heart remains tender the path to healing is taking me there with a warm soul.
Unafraid.
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.