To those who've fought for freedom and peace,
And those left behind to battle wars of grief,
I reverence you.
To military officers who reached out to my son,
To love and encourage him, as though he were the only one,
I thank you.
To the men and women who stand in harm’s way,
So little boys like mine might have lived another day,
I honor you.
To those who have fallen, in love or in war,
And the souls left empty handed and yearn for “just one more”,
I understand you.
On this day of remembrance may we never lose sight,
Those who fought battles and surrendered their life,
I love you.
May we remember those who gave life their best,
And live in a way that honors them, whatever days we have left,
I promise you.
And though our hearts may be weary and in need of rest,
May we remember our fallen, and life’s greatest test,
Lest we forget.
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.
As I drove home tonight I stopped by the cemetery to see Mitch. My sweet wife has always been mindful of Mitchell’s flowers and each month arranges something thoughtful and sweet for his vases. I believe that is part of her grief path and I think it is beautiful.
By the time I arrived the sun was already behind the mountain and the sky was getting dark quickly. It was especially warm today and I could almost feel a hint of spring and a promise of warmer days to come. I love each season but there is something hopeful about spring. Soon I’ll be able to sit by my son again and write. I have missed that.
As I stood by my son’s headstone contemplating my life with Mitch, I couldn't help but notice a balloon on each side of his headstone that said “I love you.” Tears filled my eyes as I thought to myself, “More than you know …”
My heart, while broken, has grown.
Upon learning of Mitchell’s diagnosis in 2005 we sold our home and began building one that would better accommodate his growing muscle weakness. Everything was happening so fast and the proverbial stars aligned in more ways than 100. However much we thought we were in control of our lives, as I look back on those years I can see with great clarity now a path was being cleared for Mitchell’s journey and my family that went far beyond my power to control. Providence was at work.
During construction we lived in an apartment for about a year and a half. Our place was small and cramped and most of what we owned (the furniture and treasured things we worked so hard to buy as young, broke newlyweds) was packed deep in a storage facility. None of that stuff mattered – we went back to the basics, back to the essentials.
There is something cleansing about less.
Life was suddenly simpler. All we had were our children – and they were so young and little; Wyatt was only weeks away from being born.
Our kids had bundled up and went outside to play in the fresh snow between apartment buildings. Mitch, who was wearing his mother’s white winter hat, was tiny but determined to keep up with his older brother and sister. Ethan and Laura-Ashley were both so kind to include him in their snowy adventures.
I loved watching Mitch stand there in his little snow pants, wearing his favorite Spiderman gloves and his mother’s hat – which hat made him look even cuter. My heart swelled as I saw my older kids gladly include their baby brother in building a snow fort. There was no material possession in storage or on earth that came close to the joy and satisfaction of watching my kids love and play that day.
My wife looked through the kitchen window to see how our kids were doing. It dawned on me at that moment this was the beautiful college girl I married years ago … a young woman who once worried about passing exams, looking pretty, and having fun with friends who had grown up and become a caring mother whose life was deeply woven into the well-being of her children. This was the girl, who in my younger years swept me off my feet and made my hands shake; a beautiful young woman that had morphed into a form of splendor I never quite supposed. If she was beautiful to me in college, she was even more beautiful at this very motherly moment. And, if she was beautiful on that wintery day … imagine how beautiful she is to me today. I will borrow the words of my fallen son by saying, “I’m the lucky one.”
The moment I took this photo I couldn't help but think this image a metaphor.
Each time we had a child we suddenly found ourselves on the outside of something marvelous. We began to realize for the remainder of our mortal days it will be as though we’re looking through a window at someone we love and care for deeply. We watch our children make choices and blaze their own paths through life – paths that may be very different from our own. My wife and I have learned we cannot control them – but we can teach our children correct principles and hope they learn to govern themselves wisely. We can council, we can guide, and while they’re very young perhaps we can shape them a little … but at the end of the day we stand on the other side of a window and watch them. To our delight, to our disappointment, or to our horror … we watch them.
I have had experiences in my life that also tell me there is a window to a place I cannot see. I don’t pretend to know much about that place – only that I know it exists. I believe from time-to-time that window opens a little – just enough for us to sense an impression or a whisper … loving guidance from those who have gone before us and care just as much for our well-being as my wife cared for our children this day.
Whether looking back on my life through windows of retrospect, or as I watch my children learn and grow, I pray I have the wisdom to never close the blinds. What’s more, I hope to keep my windows clean so I might see things as they really are. And if I’m truly wise, I will learn to quiet my soul and keep my window open a crack … that I might hear faint whispers from those unseen who love me and have my back.