It was only a few years ago we were in Wyoming to spend time with family. My father-in-law was born in Wyoming but lived much of his life in Utah. As his retirement neared he decided to purchase a small cabin deep in the vaguely flat fields of Wyoming. At first I thought it a strange move and often wondered why he purchased a place out there. Then it occurred to me how, at some point in our lives, most everybody yearns to go home. Suddenly I understood.
So on this mid-Saturday morning, sitting in this small cabin filled with all manner of children, grandchildren and in-laws I saw something that swept my heart to the heavens and back. I had just sat on the couch for a bit to write in my journal when I noticed through the chaos of people and things a tender conversation between Mitch and his grandfather. This was the same grandfather who, just a few years later, would give Mitch a puppy to call his own, just weeks before he died. You can watch that sweet exchange here: vimeo.com/58228257
Mitch had just painted a hat and was showing his loving grandfather what he had worked so hard to do. I could tell by the tender look on Mitchell’s face he appreciated how much grandpa cared. Though I was surrounded by the noise of 15 people scuttling about the activities of the day, time slowed down for me and I watched this quiet exchange with tears in my eyes. I hid my face behind my camera, so as not to be noticed or draw attention. I was so grateful for the love and quiet attention my son received – for this moment, among many others, shaped him.
My father-in-law has no idea this picture exists and I am quite certain he doesn't remember this ordinary, but beautiful exchange. But I remember this and many more like them – and I have photos of them, too. These moments remembered are like bandages that bind up my broken heart. They remind me that my son had a good life and that he was surrounded by people who loved him – and Mitch felt it. These happy moments give my heart, stricken with grief, a moment of peace and sweet release.
As I look upon this nearly invisible exchange, a conversation that lasted no more than 2 minutes, I am reminded why we are here in the first place. I can’t help but wonder if the Father of our souls lovingly looks at our own messy efforts, despite how critical we might be of ourselves, and is pleased to see we did the best we knew how. Mitch did the best he knew how, and it was perfect. Nothing more could have been asked of him – I was so proud of Mitch.
The older I get the less I fixate on perfection and the more I am satisfied with growth – however fast or slow. I know many perfectionists whose greatest weakness is perfectionism. They are tyrannized by order, symmetry, and technical flawlessness – so much so, their appetite for perfection bleeds into their human exchanges and they often miss the point of things and damage relationships. Oh there’s a time and a place for perfection; I expect a bridge, or a building, or an aircraft be engineered perfectly. But in matters of the soul, we tend to build and rebuild ourselves with materials we cannot see – which makes the struggle of human growth woven with great difficulty.
At least for me, life is an exercise of trial and error, failures and triumphs, stumbling down and getting back on our feet again. In the end, I believe we’ll all come to know the purpose of life is to gain experience and grow. One day, in that place beyond the hills, I believe we will look back on our own struggles and see how, because of them, we were made stronger, more compassionate and more like our Father.
I’ll never forget Mitchell’s messy hat, colored with chaotic splotches from his young, inexperienced hand. It was perfect. Nor will I ever forget this seasoned grandfather, a man who quietly longed to be home, who offered love and attention to my son. Though, mortal and imperfect, in that moment he was perfect.
I hope, at the end of my days, my Father will see far past my weaknesses, which are many, and look upon my heart; for there is love in there, it has been that way from the very start.
I am grateful for this sweet exchange, and many like them, that remind me to look for perfect moments, not perfect people. Perfection, at least in matters of the soul, has more to do with effort than exactness – the invisible things we do, over time, that shape our heart, minds and souls.
It was April 2012, Mitchell’s last spring, and we were about to head home from our annual Easter trip at our family ranch. A few weeks prior I had returned from a business trip in Honduras and was so glad to be back with my family. The US State Department issued a travel warning indicating the risk was critically high, having the highest murder rate in the world. While there I was careful, but I found the people of that country beautiful, kind and my heart went out to them. I fell in love with their people and wished only to help them. Coming home was especially sweet because I realized how blessed I have been. The lyrics to the song “Because I have Been Given Much, I Too Must Give” kept playing in my mind.
While I have enjoyed traveling the world a little, I have discovered how much my family is my world. I would sooner explore the peaks and valleys of family life with them than visit all the wonders of earth.
As I took this photo of my kids I remember feeling the genuine, unrestrained love among these children. My heart sang. Mitch surrounded by siblings and a cousin proudly wore the soccer jersey I gave him as a souvenir from Honduras. Unlike his siblings, Mitchie would wear his souvenirs long after my other kids moved on from theirs. It wasn't that my other children were ungrateful; Mitch just had a heart that was more sentimental than the average person. While he loved getting things, he appreciated the meaning behind things even more. You could give him a paperclip and say, “I got this for you because it reminded me how sweet you are.” Mitch would treasure that simple paperclip as an emblem of affection. Sweet Mitch was the keeper of many virtues; chief among them, gratitude. I love that little boy.
At this moment I had no idea we would have less than a year with our son. No one handed me a memo that read, “Mind your moments, it’s later than you think.”
A few weeks from this photo we would get just such a memo from Mitchell’s cardiologist that read, “Beware: Mitchell’s heart is in trouble.” We had hope medicine would slow the catastrophic muscle wasting to his heart, but we were awakened to the harsh realities of DMD, once again. I remember not sleeping well the night we got the first memo. I went to my computer and put this video together. (vimeo.com/42931543) In many respects, this was my first real post on Mitchell’s Journey. Sure I’ve back-dated some early photos, but this was my first, clunky attempt at sharing the gravity of it all.
Within six months of this photo, we would get second memo that our son was in serious trouble and was at risk of sudden death. Within 10 months, a memo our son would die any day. Then, a few weeks later, the end.
I wonder how often life has handed me a memo and I ignored it because I was too proud, too preoccupied or simply chasing squirrels. I have always tried to manage life’s memos, but being human I am sure I missed some. I know I cannot change the past, redo missed moments, nor can I undo my mistakes however big or small; but I can own my moments … from this moment to forever. I get it now. I got the memo.
I cannot wait for the day I get the memo that says “Your son is just around the corner.” For I will run to him with paperclips and kisses and a heart overflowing with love. I think I will cry. Forever.
Last Spring my wife and I drove to Mitchell’s elementary school to collect his personal and school belongings. The air was cold and the sky was wrapped in a dull, grey blanket of clouds that seemed to match the mood of things. As we approached the school I reflected on all of the amazing teachers and staff who had done so much to support and love our family and I was overcome with gratitude. There was no coldness in my heart.
I was doing okay until his teacher reached for a file box that contained everything that was Mitchells. In an instant, I was overcome by strong emotions and I did all that I could to hold back a massive surge of tears. Tears came anyway. My hands trembled and my body quaked as I quietly gasped for air. The pain of this moment was palpable.
There, in a cardboard box, were items that to a stranger would have no value. But to us, its contents were priceless: a plastic container filled with pencils and crayons that Mitchell collected, a name tag, pieces of paper with his handwriting … a potpourri of elementary school artifacts that to me were more valuable than all the treasures of ancient Egypt.
As Mitchell’s teacher (Mrs. Masina) handed the box to Natalie she gave her a hug. I stood a few feet away fighting back the tears, doing all that I could to keep composed. All I wanted to do was curl up in a corner and sob. This compassionate teacher described how much Mitchell meant to her and that she loved him – it was clear that she was hurting, too. With a broken voice she admitted handing the box over to us was difficult because she loved Mitch and she felt like she was giving part of her heart away.
After Mitchell passed away she had each student write down their memories of him and carefully laminated, then bound the pages into a book. Each page was thoughtfully authored from his peers; each page was personal and authentic. Mitchell was universally referred to by his classmates as kind, deeply caring, fun to be with and humble. Reading through these hand written letters and drawings from 5th Graders, I learned quite a bit about Mitch. I also learned a lot about 5th graders … especially what they notice. I was reminded of one of my favorite sayings: “Oh what a tangled web do parents weave when they think their children are naive.” In reading their observations it was clear these young children were reflective, thoughtful and keen observers. These young students were my teacher and I have been taking notes.
After we collected Mitchell’s desk belongings we went to the front office to get his scooter, which was charging in the Principals supply room. As I unplugged his scooter I noticed a collection of sports day ribbons hanging from his handlebar, evidence my little boy strived to achieve and won. He hung those ribbons from his scooter as a reminder to himself he could do hard things. I was so proud of Mitch and wished he was sitting there so I could hug him and tell him what a great boy he was. But he was not there and nor would he ever be; never had a chair seemed so empty.
This painful but gentle exchange between Mitchell’s mother and school teacher was a gentle reminder education is more than academics – that knowledge without humanity is hollow. The best teachers also teach what it means to be human – not by what they say, but who they are. Mrs. Masina taught humanity and love beautifully … and so did her students.
So here we stand on the other side of Mitchell’s education … and suddenly we are students of the hardest lesson life has to teach. Our homework, invisible to the eye, must be worked out in quiet of the mind and heart. What we take and learn from our hardships is engraved in our soul and shapes what we become. I get the impression the homework of grief will take a lifetime to complete.
When I look at this photo and see an empty-handed mother leaving our son’s school, I am reminded there is a classroom none of us leave alive.
Sometimes we are teachers … but we are always students.
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.