We had just gone to the mountains to take some family photos. This was the day we took our last family portrait, save the one taken by a dear follower 2 days before Mitch passed away. That was a family portrait of a different caliber – one that we reverence.
I generally avoid posed photos because I much prefer raw captures of life unrehearsed. Besides, nothing is more fatiguing to others than to have someone say “Okay, everyone stop what you’re doing and look at me so I can take a semi-candid photo of you smiling.” I would rather photograph someone laughing at the dinner table, food-in-mouth, than take a staged photo where hair and makeup are perfect but illusory. Over the years I have captured tears and triumphs, sadness and glee … moments that are difficult to look at and send me to my knees. But these images are my life, they are what I see – and I will always take them unapologetically.
So, on this day, for some reason we felt it important to take some family photos and I am glad we did. What you see here is a photo of me taking my daughter’s portrait on the left, and the exact photo I took on the right. I was unaware Mitch had another camera trained on me and he took this photo of me taking a photo. Mitch had seen previous images I had taken in Nicaragua where one of my colleagues took a photo of me taking a photo and I had done something similar to what you see here. I remember pointing to that Nicaragua photo set and saying, “Mitch, can you see what a difference perspective can make?” I continued to tell my son that so often with life it isn’t what you see, it’s how you see it. Mitch, having seen what I had earlier done tried to recreate that same juxtaposition. Well done, son. I miss you.
I have always wanted my children to learn how to see with their true eyes; to understand a fundamental truth … that so often it isn't what we see that matters, but how we see it. So much of what plagues humanity, it seems, is seeing things from a single, myopic perspective. There is a saying that goes, “Those that hurt others, hurt.” Perhaps the solution to those who compulsively gossip, who say and do harmful things isn't to retaliate in-kind, but to recognize they are hurting, too, and seek to discover the sliver in their soul that is causing them pain. And if we’re listening, if we stop looking only at what we see on the surface and change how we see, perhaps we can truly help others. I have discovered the best way to disarm someone is to love them.
It’s not what you see, it’s how you see it. In the case of these images, neither are wrong, they just tell a different story. And although this photo is not of my son, one of these photos was taken by him and tells a story about my boy – what he chose to see. So, this image serves as a reminder to mind my perspective, always.
I can chose to look up on the death of my innocent son as a horror story and raise my fist toward God. That act of defiance will not change a thing, nor will it change Him; instead turning my back toward my Father would change me … even poison me. I know that there is a greater plan at work, so I will endure whatever lessons patiently. I just wish it didn't hurt so much. Yet, I sense there will come a day that I will yet see my sorrows differently. They will no longer be the source of my heartache, but the contrast needed to truly appreciate that sacred reunion with my son; for I cannot know great happiness without knowing great sorrow.
As I travel through my wilderness of grief, I will always look to the heavens to find my way. I will search for, count and chart our tender mercies as an evidence of God’s love – despite what we are asked to suffer. And though I am certain to see more sorrow in the years ahead, I will remember that it isn't what I see that matters, but how I see it.
Thank you Mitch, for taking this photo and reminding me so poignantly.
This was Mitchell’s last time at his grandmothers – the place, other than home, he loved to be above all others. I’m not sure if it was the chocolate cake from Costco she would get especially for him, or the small 4-wheelers he could ride into the woods, or if it was the escape from life as he knew it, maybe it was the unbridled love he received – but whatever it was, he wanted to be there.
As we stood at the door and said goodbye my mother reached behind Mitch, who is as shy as he is sweet, and kissed his cheek. I could tell Mitch felt so good inside. I think everybody deserves to feel good inside.
I captured this tender moment with my phone. As we left her place there was a certain heaviness in my heart. I didn’t know where my feelings were coming from – I just sensed something was happening. Something significant. As we drove away I struggled to swallow the lump in my throat. Had I known this was his last trip there, I would have begged to stay another day or two. My mother said after we left she just sat on the floor and wept. Perhaps her soul, not knowing the end was coming, was being prepared for this loss.
It was the last few days of November and the Christmas holidays were just around the corner. I could tell Mitch was excited to see what Santa would bring –but he was even more excited about the gifts he was going to give everyone else. Mitch always gave to others freely. I think deep inside he felt no matter how much he gave, he always got more in return.
Even when Mitch was home on hospice, he spent his hard-saved money on a collection of Warheads (very sour candy) and gave them away. I remember sitting with him on the edge of his bed as he separated the flavors. He softly pointed to the blue raspberry ones and said almost in a whisper, struggling to breathe, “These ones are rare. They’re my favorite.” He then grabbed my hand and put the precious 3 candies in my palm, then closed my fingers and pushed my hand back to me. I said to him, “Oh, no Mitchie, these are yours. You keep them because I know you love them.” As I reached to give them back he pushed my hand back to me with a gentle smile and said, “No, you keep them. And I want you to eat one right now.” My heart sank a little because I wanted him to have his favorite treats, but I realized in that moment that letting Mitch give was the gift he really wanted.
So, I opened one quickly and put it in my mouth. Mitch began to smile and giggle as I puckered and writhed over the intense sour candy that was destroying my taste buds. Mitch finally burst out in laughter as he saw me cry out “I can’t take it!” For Mitch, giving was a win to him. And seeing me almost gag over the super-sour candy was a second win that paid dividends of giggles and laughter.
I still have those other two candies in a special box that contains treasures from Mitch.
Mitch reminds me daily what it means to win. Sometimes life gives us double-wins when everything turns out as planned. Other times we do our best and appear to fail; but if we are honest and do our best we have already won, regardless of the outcome. What is winning, really? It is doing the right thing – no matter the cost. Mitch always did the right thing. And more often than not, he won twice.
With all his double-wins, my little boy lost his battle with life … yet he won his soul by the way he lived it. And, by the grace of God, while I stumble and fall a million times as I chase after my son, I hope to hold him once more. I hope to look into his innocent eyes and thank him for helping me understand to do good and be good is what it means to truly win.
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.
I loved it when Mitch sat on my shoulders as a little boy. When I look at this photo I can almost feel his little hands on my face again and my heart is awash with love. But then the tears come – I cannot stop them – and they wet my face and remind me of what once was, but is no longer. I still close my eyes and reach to feel his little hands on my face sometimes.
Sometimes.
On this day Mitch asked to sit on my shoulders so he could peer over the fence in our back yard and wave goodbye to his big sister who was walking to school. The fence was just tall enough that I couldn't see over it, not even on my tiptoes. But once on my shoulders, Mitch could see the brave new world just over the fence. A world he could always hear but couldn't see. Once on my shoulders he would tell me the things he saw. He would yell out as if to say “Dad, this is awesome! If you could see what I see!”
“A bus!” he would say excitedly. “A twuck!” with another excited burst. To little Mitch the world just over the fence was a smorgasbord of sights and sounds that captured his imagination. When he saw his sister come into view he would bounce up and down on my shoulders and point to her yelling, “I see her! I see her! I wuv you Ash!”
Though I couldn't see his smile with my eyes I could feel his smile with his hands on my face – and my heart grew a foot or two. I then grabbed his hands and pressed them into my face as if to hug him. These are the moments I live for. These are the moments that warm my heart and calm my soul.
My sweet wife, who recognized I was always behind the camera and almost never seen in a scrapbook, took some photos of us that morning. Photos of Mitch and me are rare by comparison to the number of photos I took of everyone else. So I treasure these photos with my son greatly.
We would discover a few weeks from this photo Mitch had a catastrophic muscle-wasting disease that would hurt him, cause great hardship, and eventually take his life. I cannot count the nights I sat at our kitchen table weeping for my son, reading everything I could to understand DMD and trying to prepare for the inevitable journey through the wastelands of grief and sorrow.
I was unaware we were nearing the end of an era for our family. An era of relative peace and ease; an era free of the sorrows we would soon know and then carry the remainder of our days. Oh, I had become acquainted with the sorrows of death – for my father passed when I was 19. But a father is no son; and losing my child has broken me in ways I never imagined.
My son’s journey has taken me on a most unexpected path – a path I was scarcely prepared to sojourn. Were I given the choice I would have taken any path but this. For I have nearly drown in a sea of sorrow, I have stumbled through my wilderness of grief, and I have peered into the depths of the abyss. The loss of my son has become my Everest and I intend on reaching the summit.
Perhaps after a trillion of my own tears have fallen to the earth, when my weary legs and broken heart are about to collapse … when I reach the summit of my Everest … perhaps, then, I will begin see what Mitch sees. A brave new world. A world I can hear with my heart – but I cannot now see.