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.
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.
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.
New Year’s Eve was a few hours away and 2012 would soon be in the history books. Unaware our son had about 2 months to live we carried on with our lives as normally as we knew how. Perhaps in some measure we took a little of life for granted - for had I known the hour was so late, I would have spent my minutes differently. Such is the lament of all that grieve … but I did the best I knew how – and I can live with that. I can breathe.
On this night we took our kids to Rock Creek Pizza Co, a local restaurant chain we love to support. Mitch sat beside me, as he always did, clung to my arm and leaned his head into me. I love how softly he loved. If this tiny, almost invisible exchange meant the world to Mitch … it meant the universe to me. His gentle, affectionate touch was more powerful than a million of the world’s strongest men.
I quickly grabbed my cell phone and took a photo of my tender son who just wanted to love and be loved. I swallowed the lump in my throat and wondered who was comforting whom. I then kissed his forehead and whispered, “I love you, son.” Mitch replied softly, “I love you too, Dad.”
I really miss my son.
As often as I say “I love you” to my family (and I say it about 100 times a day) it never gets old because each time I mean it a little more than the time before. Each day I discover love anew and fall more deeply in love with my family. Sometimes in my sorrow I am pained by the price of love, but I would rather have a broken heart than an empty heart – no matter how much it hurts.
While I travel through life on the other side of Mitchell’s Journey, this impossible sojourn through love and loss, I find each day offers a little more than the day before. A little more sorrow and a little more healing: it’s a curious blend – what seems like arch-rivals are indeed paradoxical friends. I hurt because I’m healing – I am on the mend.
Some days are more difficult than others. It has been over a year since I lost my son and not a single day has passed that I haven’t cried for him. I pray for a day without rain. One day it will come.
This was just an ordinary night punctuated by ordinary moments of love and quiet affection – not just with Mitch, but also with my other children.
I love my family and not a day passes they don’t know it – each day a little more than the time before.