When my kids were especially little I started a game called “Gut Busters” – which was basically human bumper cars. The title of this game became something of a metaphor for the participant and observer – whether through smashing or laughing, it was a gut-busting experience. This idea isn't new – but to my kids it was –and that was all that really mattered. We would stuff pillows from the couch in their pajamas and they would run into each other and fall to the floor. Everyone would giggle and laugh and it was a great way to get their wiggles out before they went to sleep.
It was the evening of my birthday (2007) when these sweet boys wanted to have an honorary smash-up-derby. I’ll never forget how much Wyatt looked like SpongeBob, how energetically Ethan flexed his little chicken wings, and how precious Mitch, who always felt physically awkward, pointed his finger in the air meaning to do a thumbs up. Mitch wanted to be strong and powerful like his brothers – but in the end, his life traded physical power for a power of a different kind.
A few weeks prior to this moment with my boys, I stumbled into something songwriter Guy Lombardo said, “Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think.” For some reason, that quote pressed against me like a cold breeze and I couldn't shake the feeling the hour was later than I knew. Yet, there was no indication Mitch was in any trouble of any kind. For my son death would surely visit – but it wasn't supposed to happen for another 20 years. It would only be 5 years from this photo before we would learn Mitchell’s heart was beginning to fail. Less than 6 years before the end.
Not knowing the perils ahead, we took heed to those quiet whispers that told us the hour was later than we knew. Though my heart cries out today over the death of my son and I am very much pained therewith, I am grateful we responded to those whispers and drank in the moments the best we knew how.
Do I have regrets for time poorly spent? Absolutely. But mistakes are part of our human experience. I carry regret the same way I might walk away from a conversation saying to myself, palm to forehead, “Oh, I should have thought to say ____.” I don’t carry regret as a burden or an instrument to lash self-punishment. Rather, my regrets serve as a reminder to do better next time.
Were I to live out my days in regret for the things I could have (or should have) done better, I would not have the presence of mind to enjoy life. Though I carry the weight of grief and sorrow over the loss of my son, a weight so heavy I can scarcely shoulder, I have 3 other children whom I love just as much. And I will enjoy my time with them while they are with me. Because, even still, the hour is later than I think.
As a young boy I was told I might have, with a little luck, some once in a lifetime opportunities. Inspired, I began to search after them – for they were sure to promise novelty and happiness. But what were they? Are they rare? Are they for the lucky ones? Would I be so lucky as to stumble into one at some point in my life?
Sure enough, over the years, I've encountered them. Some were as unique as I imagined. Sometimes I blew it. Other times I drank those opportunities in. Being human, I am sure some have passed me by.
Then, one day, my sweet wife and I were at a park with my kids and I had a moment of clarity and realized they weren't rare at all and that I was surrounded by them. It occurred to me at that moment my family was just that - a once in a lifetime opportunity. Every moment with them was unique and fleeting. I don't get to do my days, or my hours, or minutes over. I realized I will never have now again. Suddenly, my eyes were opened and I saw my wife and children anew.
Mitchell was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I pray I never took him for granted or squandered the time I had. As much as I tried to appreciate each moment, I am pained that I did not. But making mistakes is part of being human - and I am learning to live with that.
I loved my son the best I knew how, and I hope he felt it.
I remember sitting at the foot of Mitchell’s bed as he was nearing the end of his life. His heart was weary and his body was giving up. Believing my son was sound asleep I began to think about my life with Mitch and his hopes and dreams that he would never realize.
My heart broke that my son, this once in a lifetime opportunity was coming to an end. Once again, I wept a broken father’s tears. As I wept in sorrow I caused the bed to shake a little and Mitch asked, “Dad, why are you crying?” I wiped my tears and tried to laugh it off because I didn't want to frighten him. But I was so very frightened to lose him. So very scared.
A few days later my son … my little buddy, my soul mate was gone; this once in a lifetime opportunity.
I don't know how many more once in a lifetime opportunities I will encounter in my life. I know each day with my wife and children are just that - and I will try harder to make the most of my time and let them know how much I love them in my every word and my every deed.
This much I do know … when I see my son again in that place beyond the hills, I will run to him as fast as my legs will carry me. I will crush mountains and drain the seas to clear a path so I can have my son back with me. I may trip and I may fall, and if my legs give out … I won’t stop, I will crawl.
And when finally I reach him, I will embrace my boy like I always did … with all the love I have … and could ever hope to give.
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.