During his final days there were times I couldn't tell whether I was talking to my 10 year old son or a soul that was older than the universe itself. I saw it with my own eyes and felt it in the depths of my soul; something significant was happening. Although my young son was dying, his true identity was emerging and I sensed he was much older than I knew. I realized death wasn't the end ... but it was a painful goodbye, even if for now. Reunion may as well be forever away. For my heart aches and yearns to have him back with me – the way he used to be. That is grief.
As death inched closer the veil between this place and over there became increasingly thin. Those who came to visit said they felt a strong presence in our home. Natalie and I didn't always feel what they felt – we were probably too close to recognize it. Perhaps, also, we were in too much pain. Yet, in our closeness to this sorrow, we saw things others couldn't. Some things I will never share, for they are too sacred. Sometimes I wonder what it would look like were we allowed to see all that is truly happening. Perhaps we might be startled to see all the hands unseen that carry us in ways we do not now appreciate or feel.
There was a point when Mitch asked me, “Dad, is there any other way?” I held my son quietly and I wept. Countless were the nights I begged God for a way out. I pleaded for mercy. I begged for my son. As his father I would have traded places with him without a moment’s thought. I asked God, “Is there any other way?” As I tried to listen to my Father, I was reminded of another One who asked for a bitter cup to pass. Not even He was spared.
There is a saying that reads, “Most people wish to serve God – but only in an advisory capacity.” How oft have I been tempted to think my finite mind knows better than my infinite Father’s? So many times my heart cried out, “Please, not this. Anything but this.” I begged God for another way as though I might devise a better plan. Yet I know I cannot see what He sees … and I am reminded we are not mortal beings having a spiritual experience, but “spiritual beings having a mortal experience.” (Pierre Teilhard de Chardin)
I don’t know much. But what I do know is this mortal life is a place to learn and grow under the tutelage of a Divine Teacher; a place where we learn how to see in the dark and hear the voice of God in our own wilderness. I can see that now. I understand there is no other way.
Yet, here I am talking of pain and suffering as a divine tutor … and I find myself on my knees, drenched in tears, begging for relief, scarcely able to bear the weight of this sorrow. Then a whisper, “There is no other way. Be patient, my son, for you will see more tomorrow.”
There is no other way.
I was blessed with an opportunity to speak at a Women’s Conference this weekend about Mitchell and his Journey. As we are fast approaching the anniversary of his passing my heart has been especially heavy and emotions have been all over the place. Speaking about my son was hard to do, but necessary.
My wife and children came to listen and I was so touched by their love and support. As they sat in the front row I couldn't help but look upon their faces and feel deep love and gratitude for each of them. I have been blessed beyond my wildest dreams to have each of them in my life.
During my talk I shared a few metaphors that to me represented much of Mitchell’s Journey, and now my own. The first was the abyss of which I have so often written about. The second is about my wilderness, an essay I have yet to post. The third was my Everest, some of which I’ve already posted. And fourthly, a heavenly constellation of tender mercies, another essay I have yet to post. I will post those things in due time.
Honestly, I don't know why I keep writing about little Mitch. I can't stop thinking about him - and I don't think I ever will. I don't write to wallow or fixate on my sorrows. I don't do it to draw attention. I suppose I'm trying to cope with the loss of my son by sorting things out and putting my heart back together … and there are pieces everywhere. Often when I sit down to write I say to myself at the end “Well, I didn't see that one coming.”
For me this journey has been as much about discovery as anything.
I am still learning, and I ever will. While my heart is broken, my faith is stronger still. It matters not how deep the abyss or dark and frightening the wilderness. There are summits to reach and heavens that speak, “Keep going, my child. Press on.”
It was bedtime and little Mitch wanted to visit his big sister in her room. Mitch loved Laura-Ashley and she loved him. A tenderer sibling relationship there never was.
My daughter, an honors student, always had a lot of homework to do and the stress of meeting her assignments was ever-present – but this young woman valued love and family above all else. No matter what was on her plate she was always quick to set everything aside in order to give Mitch her mind and heart. In my mind I can still hear the sound of her sweet voice whenever she spoke with him. Her tone with him was as unique and tender as their relationship.
Mitch sat on the edge of her bed and they talked for a while. Soon Mitch yawned and she knew it was time for her little brother to sleep. So, Laura-Ashley hoisted this tired boy on her back and carried him up the stairs, knowing his muscles were too weak to climb them anymore. I was so humbled to see this act of love and service.
I took this photo about two weeks before Mitch went to the hospital. He was dying and we didn't know it.
When I see this photo I can’t help but remember the night I knelt by this very bed and gently woke my daughter to tell her Mitch was gone. We both cried. I hurt for my daughter. I hurt for my son. I hurt.
I wish the death of a child didn't hurt so much. But it does.
Every room in my home reminds me of my son. Without warning a memory will flash through my mind as though I were watching a grainy home film of a moment long gone. For the most part these memories, these echoes of the past, are beautiful and I love them. I can still see Mitch sitting on the end of the couch every morning quietly waiting to give me a hug before I went to work. I miss that. I can see my three boys laughing as they had Nerf wars in the basement. I can see my daughter helping Mitch with homework at the kitchen table - and my wife at her desk helping him with an art project. I can see Mitch everywhere but nowhere.
As a grieving parent, I've discovered euphemisms like “he’s there with you” don’t help. Mitch isn't waiting on the couch for me. It is clear to see the couch is empty. My son is not in his room. His bedroom is profoundly empty. His wheelchair, covered in cloth, remains unmoved. Everything echoes. He is simply not there … not the way he used to be. And for a grieving parent that’s the point: the ones we love are gone from our lives.
As I have contemplated the echoes of emptiness I also recognized the echoes of memory and experience. One echo is hollow and the other is full … and it seems they are not mutually exclusive. At least for me, when it comes to grieving I think the key is to acknowledge both; to hear the emptiness but hear also the echoes of memory and love.
Never have my knees been more bruised – either from falling in sorrow or pleading to God. Though our empty rooms echo hollow, my heart is full of echoes that come from love and life experience.
Yet there are other echoes that come from neither emptiness nor memory. These echoes come from a place before time and mortality. B.H. Roberts once wrote “Faith is putting trust in what the spirit learned eons ago.” That is why certain things ring familiar and true. I have come to understand learning (especially spiritual learning) is but a remembering. Perhaps better said, it is an awakening.
Indeed everything echoes. My home echoes empty without my sweet son. My heart is filled with echoes - memories rich with love and feeling. And if I calm my soul, I can hear echoes from that place beyond the hills. Despite my broken heart, bruised knees and legs on the brink of collapse, I can hear echoes that bring spiritual understanding. I hear an echo that reminds me if I am not my body – neither was my son.
So in this place of echoes, where everything is empty yet full – I know there are echoes yet unheard that are meant to teach my soul.
I am listening.
Marco entered the ring last night and defeated his opponent in 20 seconds.
20 seconds ...
He remains undefeated.
Marco and his loving family invited a young man with DMD along with his family, to watch the fight and to get to know them better.
When Marco had the victory mic he could have said anything - and he chose to turn attention to this young man in a wheelchair sitting with his family not far from the ring and said, "I love you buddy."
Marco, you won twice last night. Keep up the good fight.
Here is a link to the young man, Caden, who Marco honored last night.
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Cure-for-Caden/136562783054288
Marco shares his gratitude and character after the fight here:
https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=807765899259019&pnref=story