When I was young, I always sought after who was beautiful. After all, that’s what boys tend to do. But now that I've grown a little, I find myself seeking after what is beautiful. And I've learned beauty isn't so much seen, but felt … that in fact true beauty, the kind that matters, is never seen with the eyes but it is felt with the heart.
I remember this day so well. We drove to my in-laws ranch in Wyoming to spend the weekend away from the routines of life. Everything seemed slower over there – in part because it is so far away from everything we knew. I was in my early 30’s and it felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders. I worried about my business, payroll, my mortgage, health insurance, paying for diapers and everything else young dad’s worry about. I felt profoundly inadequate as a husband, father and professional – so I always found getting away a little cathartic and healing.
On this occasion we drove to a river a few miles from the ranch to explore its banks. At the time we didn't know about Mitchell’s diagnosis – it would be a few months after this photo that our dreams of the future would be dashed and our hearts forever broken. Everything that weighed heavy then would soon be made light in comparison.
Mitch was a tiny boy with a huge heart. Whenever I placed him on my shoulders he would always grab my hair like the reigns to a horse and steer me the direction he wanted to go. He would giggle while he tugged my hair and I would make pained faces because it hurt. Sometimes it hurt a lot … but that was a small price to pay for helping my son have a little fun.
As we started to walk to our car I saw my wife hold Mitchell’s hand as he took tiny steps along the road. I remember thinking at that moment if I were in search of the most beautiful scene in all eternity, for me, this was it. I remember getting emotional when I saw these two beautiful souls holding hands. That was love. That was beauty. I realized right then I was the richest, luckiest guy on earth and my heart was awash with gratitude.
Abigail Van Buren wrote “If you want your children to turn out well, spend twice as much time with them, and half as much money.” My sweet wife has always done just that … and it has been beautiful to behold. This photo was one of those moments.
Without trying to, my wife taught me by her quiet example that time and attention is the currency of love and the foundation of lasting relationships. I pray I never forget what she so gracefully taught me.
I love being a father because I have learned how to love --- I mean truly love. I also love being a father because I get to witness the beauty and power of motherhood. It simply has no equal.
One year ago, almost to the day, this was my family.
To my left was sweet Mitch unaware he had about 2 months to live. He wasn't feeling well during the holidays and we thought he just had a cold. We didn't realize his heart, weary and tired from the destructive effects of DMD, was beginning to fail. We didn't realize this was it … that the time had come.
We sat as a family to break bread a few days before Christmas and I was so grateful to be with everyone most dear to me. My in-laws were with us and in a few hours we would share some Christmas gifts with each other. But for Natalie and me, no gift was equal to the time we spent together.
As a child I remember being so excited about receiving presents. During the weeks leading up to each Christmas I was always on the hunt for that secret stash of presents that would appear on Christmas morning from my mother and that benevolent icon dressed in red and white. As a young child, getting stuff was so much fun. But as each year passed, so my appetite for getting grew fainter. As I grew older I discovered that giving was far more rewarding that getting. Today I am scarcely interested in getting … I only want to give. My children have since gained an appetite for giving – which, for me, is a gift within a gift.
There I sat at our table, surrounded by everyone I love, and I began to think back on moments in my life when I was with my family but distracted by the million-and-one things that tugged at my mind and attention. There were bills to pay, three different payrolls to meet, projects to complete, a thousand personal and professional commitments, taxes, that leaking faucet in the basement, the ice on my driveway … the list is ever present and always beckoning for my attention. Each were important, some more than others, but none of that was as important as these souls seated at my table.
And though I must work so I can feed my family, I live so I can love them.
At one point I grabbed my iPhone and hastily took a panoramic photo because I didn't want to forget this moment. In life, I would rather take a bad photo than no photo – and in this case I’m so glad I did. I would have forgotten so much about this day – in fact I would have forgotten that I had forgotten. Now that I have a photo of this moment my memory is vivid, my heart is full and love overflowing.
So at our table this day I resolved to re-evaluate my life and priorities and make sure that I maintain balance and appropriate focus on my core values. And with Christmas around the corner I couldn't help but think of the gifts we give and take – that the things we wrap do not Christmas make. Just as I had made that commitment to myself the thought occurred to me that there is no present like being present. Being present … I mean totally and completely present is the greatest gift we can give each other. I have found when I’m present I can truly listen, empathize, learn and love. But when I’m distracted or casually engaged, I cannot do anything well. In fact, when I’m less-than-present I can hurt those I love by appearing disinterested or uncaring – when in reality, they are all I really care about.
Later this night little Mitch asked me in his sweet voice, “Dad, will you tuck me in?” My heart leapt at the chance. And today, when I walk into his room and see his empty bed, my heart yearns to tuck him in once more … to run my fingers through his hair, to see his soft smile and hear his laughter, to listen to what’s on his mind, to give him the gift of being present. I wasn't always good at it – in fact I probably failed more than I succeeded. But I tried. I really, really tried.
Yet, when I look back and remember the times I was truly present … those times were a gift to Mitch and a gift to me. And now, because of time well spent, I have the gift of memory.
It was January. The air was bitter cold and the clouds lay low, thick as London fog. Up the driveway walked loving grandparents to deliver a special gift to lift the heart of a young boy who was very, very sick. We thought we had a little more time with Mitch but the hour was later than we imagined. In retrospect the timing of this little gift was more than a puppy, it was a tender mercy. Over the next few weeks this little girl would perform a very special role in helping calm the heart of my dying son – and would be by his side to comfort him as he passed away.
After Mitch was denied a heart transplant in November we started searching for a puppy because he always wanted one to call his own. We wanted our son to be happy with whatever time he had left and we felt this was one way to bring comfort to him. My wife and I explored every lead and looked in every corner, each time returning empty-handed. Then, one afternoon we got a call from Natalie’s father who said he found one. We were unaware that he had diligently been searching, too. He also felt moved upon to do something for him. We were so excited for Mitch and we were so very grateful.
Mitch was in our basement playing a video game unaware the gift he would soon receive. I ran outside to greet my in-laws and take photos of everything that would follow. As my father-in-law opened the box to give me a peek my heart leapt from my chest and sprouted wings. I fought back tears because I knew what this would mean to my sweet son.
I’ll never forget the feelings I had when I first laid eyes on this furry little snowflake. Inside an old cardboard box was timid, sweet and loving little puppy. Carefully placed next to her was a Ziploc bag with handwritten instructions and some puppy food. She was also sent away with a knotted cloth that had her mother’s scent to comfort this sweet little girl as she stepped into a new and unfamiliar world. This old man and this young puppy were on a mission of mercy.
In every way, she was perfect. Just as sweet and shy as our little Mitchie, they felt like familiar souls. It was as if they were meant for each other.
I posted this video of their first meeting: https://vimeo.com/58228257
Every time I watch that video I feel a spectrum of emotions. One of my favorite parts is seen at 1:40 when you see Mitchell’s grandfather smiling as Mitch loved his new little friend. That image is heavenly to me. It shows the satisfaction one gains from heart-felt service and seeing joy in another. I can only imagine the face of our Father when he sees us being good and kind to each other.
Within minutes of meeting his little friend Mitch would name her Marlie and they went from strangers to soul mates almost instantly. Through her body language Marlie seemed to figure out quickly that Mitch was very, very sick. She seemed to know what we didn't know … couldn't know, at the time. Whenever she wobbled near my son she would lay softly next to him as if to comfort him. She almost never left his side.
This winter I will sit by my fireplace with my wife and other children with gratitude in my heart. They are all gifts to me and I treasure them. Although I am grateful for them, I will ever long for the warmth of my fallen son. And whenever I’m tempted to think the world as unforgiving and cold, when the fog of sorrow descends upon me and the pains of grief limit my view … I will remember this special delivery … this gift from a loving Heavenly & Earthly Father who worked together to bless the life of my son. And that warms my heart and soul.
It was summer and the color of the evening sun had poured into the room like a glass of warm orange juice. Grandpa hiked his pant legs a little as he sat down to tell my small children some tall tales. My little ones sat around him (Mitch on the right), captivated and smiling as their grandfather lovingly wove a story of fiction, magic, and a little bit of nonsense.
Mitch tugged softly at my arm as he pointed to the glowing lint floating in the air as it crossed paths with the window. He said in a whisper, “Dad, it looks like space.” I put my arm around him as he began to lay his head into my chest. Time slowed to a near halt as we had one of those perfect moments you wish could last forever. There were no digital screens to look at, no ear buds drowning out the world, no text messages, RSS feeds and other suffocating distractions … nothing but each other, love and the lost art of storytelling.
I remember admiring my father-in-law [a man who is as kind-hearted as he is good] connect with my children in his own, unique way. I was grateful for this soft moment. As my children were swept away in story my mind drifted to other things. I couldn't help but think of my son, a little boy who had done the world no harm yet was victim to a deadly disease from which there was no escape. Although he appeared healthy, I knew that he was dying faster than the rest of us. And that broke my heart.
When I leaned down to kiss Mitchell’s forehead he put his hand on the side of my face as if to keep me there and whispered, “I love you dad.” My eyes welled as I whispered back, “I love you more.”
As I lifted my head and looked at a wise grandfather spend time and loving attention with my children I began to think about the passage of time and the natural order of life. It occurred to me that before we know it, age will catch up to this wonderful man and he will soon pass away. Whatever material possessions he may have accumulated will matter not. Neither will popularity or prestige. The only thing he will take with him is what he has become. And the echo of his choices will be the only lasting inheritance he will pass on to the generations that follow.
As I sat in this room surrounded by a family that I love deeply, I began to contemplate the echoes we make, the ripples our choices have on ourselves and others. They can build or destroy. They can be loud as thunder or soft as whispers. They can last generations or be silenced in less than one.
Author Peggy O’Mara said “The way we talk to our children becomes their inner voice.” I found this to be true, at least for me. I hope that any inpatient or unkind word I may have ever said to my son was drowned out by how much and how often I tried to love him. And I hope that when my son was passing that he found comfort in his inner voice – that he looked forward with faith, not fear. That he knew he was loved by those of us here ... and the many that are over there.
As I peer into the abyss of death, unable to see with mortal eyes what exactly lies within, I can hear the echo of my son; his goodness, his love, his obedience and faith. I hope that I carry his echo forward.
Losing my precious son has been a painful reminder that suns set, seasons change, leaves fall, and so do our bodies – if I cannot carry his echo and pass on that which is good, I will have failed indeed.