We just returned from a weekend trip to Bear Lake – a place we've frequented over the years as a family. This was the first time we went there without Mitch.
The lake, nestled deep in the mountains, was as beautiful and serene as I remembered it to be. Because I tend to be deeply sentimental I attach vivid memories to places, things and moods. It is both a blessing and a burden. Almost everything reminds me of something. Bear Lake was no exception and reminded me of little Mitch because he had some great times there. So, as we reached the mountain summit and saw the lake for the first time since Mitchell’s passing I had to swallow my tears – for I knew my son loved to be there and he wasn't … not the way we wanted him with us.
As we approached the lake I made a conscious decision to turn my attention to my wife and kids because they were all I had left – and though I thought about Mitch often, I gave my family all that I knew to give. I wasn't perfect, but I gave it my best. I hope they felt it.
One of the difficulties of grief is learning how to move forward while part of your heart is forever frozen in time – ever longing for the one you lost. To say this process is difficult is an understatement.
On Saturday we rented a boat to water ski. Wyatt, my youngest son, was terrified when we left the harbor; this was the first time he saw me operate a boat and he was convinced I was going to crash. He cried and wanted to go back to shore. Before long he settled down and I let him steer the boat for a while. Once he understood how relatively easy it was to operate a boat, he relaxed. Wyatt no longer thought I was going to crash. It was neat to see Wyatt’s transformation from fear to confidence. Like many things in life, he needed to experience it to truly understand it. So it is with the purpose of life, too. We can talk about the virtues of faith at great length; we can write books and examine faith as an academic exercise; we can stand at pulpits and discuss the idea of faith – but it is only when the lights go out and we must take those terrifying steps in the darkness that we begin to truly understand faith. Until the trial of our own faith, it is merely wordplay and postulates.
I took this photo of Mitch a few years ago while at Bear Lake. Because Mitchell’s legs were weak from DMD, his aunt Miriam pushed him so he could get more speed. Mitch smiled and laughed and it seemed as if he felt like a ‘regular kid’ for a moment. I will forever look back at moments like these and feel gratitude in my heart. Though my son was oppressed by a debilitating disease, with the help of others he felt a rush of freedom.
This image hangs in my garage next to the 5 shovels that were used to bury my son. While those shovels are poignant symbols of love and loss, reminding me each day to be sober and sane, this image is also a symbol to me … a reminder to appreciate the power of now – for I will never have now again.
I often think back at the time I took this photo of Mitch– there was a lot going on in my professional life. It seemed as though the weight of the world was on my shoulders and I could have had a million excuses to postpone this trip a year or to stay home and work. Had I confused my values and priorities, had I decided work was more important than family, this moment, and a million like them, would have never happened. Regret is merely disappointment over the misuse of moments. I vow to never live a life of regret.
This image reminds me to never trade that which is good for that which is greater. I know when I die I won't look back and wish I spent more hours at the office. My most treasured memories won't be at a computer or in a conference room – they will be with the ones I love. And that will be my gift to them – the gift of time and attention … the gift of experience and memories. Though work is vital and important I know where it fits with my life priorities and I will never confuse them. My little son has taught me there is nothing more powerful than now. For now is when memories are made … not tomorrow, not some day in the future. Now.
My dear wife wanted to take our kids out last night so we could spend time as a family. Ethan is on a scout trip, but Laura-Ashley and Wyatt were with us. We visited a nearby pond Mitch loved to visit and capture sunsets with his iPod. Soon I will start exploring his iPod with his many photos, videos and other things he created. I will share some of that here, too. It is sure to be a tender, emotional experience.
Natalie and Laura-Ashley ran to the store to get a loaf of bread while Wyatt and I waited on the dock. Wyatt and I talked about our plans for the summer and I was as excited to spend time with him as any person on earth.
It wasn't long before the girls returned and we began to feed the gaggle geese and all manner of web-footed creatures that seemed to know the party was just about to start and came racing to the dock. Our aim was to throw little pieces of bread near the baby ducks so they could eat first. These baby ducks were so little, fast and light they could almost run on top of the water. They were so very cute. Mitch loved baby animals.
I loved last night. I loved every second of it. There couldn't have been a more perfect night. Well, if Mitch were with us, in the way we want him with us, it would have been whole. But, like my friend and author John Michael Stuart taught me about what it means to be human, “Perfect is a relative term.” With what we had, last night was perfect and for that I am grateful.
My heart was at peace last night because I was so grateful to be surrounded by people I love with all my heart. I’m just an imperfect man and I know I am hard to live with at times – and I am grateful they still keep me. Although imperfect I love my family perfectly – at least I think I do. That is until I fall deeper in love with my wife and kids and realize all the love I thought I knew was just beginning. To my surprise the depths of love grow deeper still.
I miss my little Mitch and I am slowly learning how to live without him. One of the great challenges for those who grieve the death of a child is learning how to reconcile the past, make peace with a painful present and look to the future with a hope of an easier tomorrow. No small task.
I love the words of Elana K. Arnold, “Perhaps that is where our choice lies -- in determining how we will meet the inevitable end of things, and how we will greet each new beginning.” It seems to me that is the quintessential story of life; a series of painful ends and hopeful beginnings – and how we respond to them shape us in ways we do not yet realize.
I am grateful for each new day, a chance to begin again. Yet, I needn't wait for tomorrow to begin again … for every moment of every day is a chance to begin anew.
Last night was a blessing; for there was peace in my heart, beauty all around and most importantly more love than I knew what to do with. Every moment I am learning, and when I stumble with grief or life, I choose to begin anew.
At the top of my property, next to our secret forest, I built a small workshop. As a young boy I was a compulsive fort builder. Whether I made forts out of pillows and blankets, or an empty cupboard, cardboard box or simply the space between the wall and a long couch; wherever there was a void I filled it with my imagination. I sought for spaces invisible to others and would use them to step away from the known world and build my own. Building things was a big part of my childhood and I am grateful for parents who never took that away from me.
So this workshop it is something of a fort – only a little cooler than the ones I built as a kid. It has a small refrigerator, microwave (for popcorn), TV/DVD player, lights and more. It isn't fancy, but it is magical, especially for kids. I remember showing it to Mitch for the first time and he said, “Dad, you mean we can make popcorn up here? Can we keep our favorite popsicles in this freezer?” I answered yes, to which my son said, “Coooool.”
When winter came, nothing was more exhilarating than to look out the window and see approaching storm cross the valley and finally surround us in a snow-globe like flurry; all the while we were snug in our fort, warmed by a heater and listening to Christmas music while building stuff that was fun.
I built the shed primarily as a workshop so my kids could have a place to get away and build things – but most importantly to build their confidence and skills. We first started by building bases for their little Star Wars and Halo figures. I would go to a craft store and fill the shopping cart with raw materials and then invite my boys to make something. They would use a hot glue gun to build scaffolding, meld blocks, rocks and trees to a spray-painted foam core board. They even attached tiny battery operated lights for their night battles. Sometimes I wish I were still a kid.
I was surprised to see my boys become more aware of the world around them and how they would often find small rocks, twigs and other things … things the world thought rubbish and say, “Dad, this would be great for one of our bases.”
I helped where I was needed, but for the most part I put them in motion and stepped aside and let my children freely explore. I marveled watching them build things with their imagination. This photo of Mitch and one of the many bases he built brings back great memories. He was so proud of it and I was so proud of him.
In my workshop remain uncompleted bases Mitch, Ethan and I were working on the summer and fall of 2012. I think I’m going to take Ethan and Wyatt up there to finish them soon. Ethan is older now and he would rather skate with his friends – and that’s okay, too, because growing up means moving on to new and different things. But I hope a little of the young boy in Ethan remains and never grows up.
There is still a little boy in me. Perhaps that, among many reasons, is why I have grieved so deeply over the loss of my son ... because the little boy in me lost a best friend, too.
Though I wish I had more time to build forts and other things with my son, and my heart I cries that Mitchie is not with me, I know we are not on this earth to build forts, mansions, or riches. We are here to build the human soul; souls that know light from dark, pain and happiness, walk by faith and gain knowledge.
I will keep building my other children the best I know how. I am certain to stumble and surely will fall, but I promise my children I will give them my all.
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.