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.
There was never a sunset, animal, or any sight of nature Mitch didn't look upon with wonder. He admired the smallest insects and biggest animals … he loved weather and sunscapes and everything in between. To him the world was one giant zoo, and he, with watchful eyes was just passing through. Surely he loved video games and electronics, but he loved all that nature had to offer even more. If ever our Creator had a fan, Mitch was His super-fan.
I took this photo on Mitchell’s Make-A-Wish trip. He stood mesmerized as he watched the dolphins glide through the water like a gentle bird that had taken flight. As Mitch leaned against the glass and watched them slip gracefully through the deep blue, I think part of him wished he could be like them and move about with ease. For Mitch moving was difficult.
What Mitch lacked in physical strength, he more than compensated in other ways. Aside from a tender heart and discerning eyes, Mitch was filled with wonderment. I believe that is a spiritual gift, too.
Little Mitch learned to see and appreciate what so many overlook as ordinary or unremarkable. Soon I will share a story about a sunrise he wanted me to see; he was so sweet, so fascinated, so in love with the world.
I always thought of life as being like a river; that the choices we make and their consequences we send downstream. We are, after all, at least in some degree, a product of the generations that preceded us. For some, they corrupt and pollute their stream and contaminate all that follow them. Others are custodians of humanity and goodness- ever keeping their waters clean. Still, others are stewards of the future and send seeds and nourishment to those that follow. But I have discovered, with great wonderment of my own, my children have passed things upstream, too. They teach me lessons that are just as life-altering and every bit as valuable as anything I would hope to share with them.
My little son has given me pause so many times; he has taught me to live my life with wonderment and my life is all the richer because of it.
My theology teaches me that everything denotes there is a God – indeed, from the subatomic to the cosmic, there is much to look upon with wonderment. But alas, the greatest of all God’s creations are the souls that walk this earth: His children. I have been blessed to raise 4 of His children – and my sense of love and wonder over those creations leave me speechless and humbled to my core.
Before we started a family I thought I understood the depths of love. It wasn't until I had my own children I sensed I had merely been frolicking in a splash park. My wife and children have taken my love to deeper waters; even still I sense I am swimming in the shallow-end and that the waters of love … waters of the soul … are deeper still. I find the more I live the deeper I love. In fact, the more I contemplate love I sense the waters of life and love spring eternal and there is no end to its depths.
I will live out the remainder of my days in awe over the mysteries of life and death and that place beyond the hills. I will be forever thankful for that gift of wonderment my son passed upstream. The gift to see with awe and wonder, to see what goes unseen.
Every time Mitch went to Shriners Hospital he would be taken to a large closet filled with unopened toys and invited to take one home. Each toy was donated to the hospital by generous people and sponsors. The hospital wanted to give kids hope that good can happen to them despite whatever burdens they carried; an enlightened philosophy that hope is medicine, too.
On one occasion the doctor was running late so Mitch was allowed to choose his gift before his checkup. Mitch was so excited to have a toy set that included a bio-mechanical saber tooth tiger that shot plasma lasers from a mountable cannon, an amphibious airplane, two cool army guys and a pylon with a penguin on top. Mitch loved penguins so that was an added bonus. As toy sets go, this was the mother lode for Mitch – and that made my heart smile.
With very few exceptions, I took time off work to be with my wife and Mitch for these hospital visits. I love them both so dearly and I never wanted either of them to feel alone. I knew that with each visit things would be getting worse and I wanted them know where my priorities were … with them.
Mitch quickly opened his gift and wanted to play with me. I sat on the other side of the examination table and we started to have battles. Suddenly the examination table sheet became a frozen snowscape and the blue cushion, icy water. Little Mitch had me be “the guy” as he lunged his saber-tooth tiger toward me. I let him gobble me up and he giggled while I writhed in pretend pain. I had so much fun playing with my son. While I might work to make a living, these are the kind of paydays I live for.
It wouldn't be many years later that I sat on the floor by Mitchell’s bed when he was home and dying. He only had a few days of life left – but we didn't know it. As we sat on the floor, Mitch opened a long, skinny drawer under his bed that was filled with Legos and brushed his hand softly through the disassembled parts pointing out his favorite pieces. He was so weak and so tired; he leaned against me to keep upright and his breaths were shallow. He wanted to play with me but he had no energy. My heart broke for my little son who wanted to live … I mean truly live. I put my arm around him and kissed his head and then suddenly Mitch said, “I love playing with you, Dad.” Tears poured from my eyes. They pour again today.
I’m just an ordinary dad who makes a million-and-one mistakes. I wish life had do-overs, for there are many things I would do differently and better. But I never stopped trying – and for that I have a certain peace of mind.
Although I have made a million and more mistakes, sometimes I get things right. And on this day, at the hospital, and again on the floor by my son’s bed, I got it right; and those are moments of such profound value they are without price.
A few years had passed since Mitchell’s diagnosis. We were committed to living a normal life as long as possible; we knew that all-too-soon DMD would take normal away from us and we weren't going to let the disease rob us of today … for tomorrow would come all too quickly. We knew that we would never have now again.
It was a hot summer day when we drove to a fire station and introduced Mitch to the men who worked there. We explained to the firefighters our son had DMD and suddenly these strong men, who were wrapped in muscle and deep tans instantly had a look of compassion on their faces. They went from men of brawn and bravery to fathers who loved and cared. They invited us in and were so kind to our son and family. We told Mitch that not only did these brave men save people and property from fires, they were also trying to save him [and many children like him] from Muscular Dystrophy. I told little Mitch these men are the ones we see with boots in-hand at intersections to collect donations. I remember getting a little emotional as I described what these firemen did to help my sweet boy. Mitch smiled quietly as I kissed his cheek. I miss kissing his cheek.
It didn't take long for these good men to put a little firefighter jacket and helmet on Mitch. The posture of my son’s little hands told me a silent story about how he was feeling at the moment. I could tell he felt timid and awkward receiving so much attention, yet his face told me he felt special. If only he knew how special he was to his mother and me – but alas, a child can never understand the depth of a parent’s love until they become one. Even then, they only comprehend the love they then have for their little ones.
Before long these kind firemen lifted Mitch into one of their fire trucks and described how everything worked. Little Mitch was fascinated.
As we drove home that day Mitch looked out the window with a smile on his face as though he were lucky to have had that experience. I kept looking back at him through the rear-view mirror and couldn't help but think how lucky I was to be his dad. I could tell that experience made him feel special – and that made my heart swell. I believe everyone deserves to feel good about themselves. Everyone.
I couldn't help but feel gratitude for my wife who always looks for ways to expand our children’s horizons and encourages them to experience new things. If it weren't for her diligence as a parent, this experience may have never happened.
There isn't a day that passes that I don’t borrow Mitchell’s words and say to myself, “I’m the lucky one.” Though my legs are weak under the crushing weight of grief, I find myself with treasures of the soul, so-to-speak. When I think of my sweet son and my attempts to rescue him – I can’t help but recognize how he has rescued me. I’m the lucky one.