I just returned from a short trip with my oldest son, Ethan, to Southern California so he could learn to surf. He was so excited to spend some one-on-one time and hang out in the ocean. It was a wonderful few days to bond father and son.
With all that has happened the last year and a half, I was careful to make this trip just about him. I turned my cell phone off, put work aside, and focused on him and him alone. We talked about his dreams and aspirations and what he wanted in life. We ate pizza every night, we laughed and played and set aside the worries of the world. We had a great time together.
Throughout the trip Ethan made comments about how much he missed Mitch and that he wished he were there with us. I knew that Ethan lost his best friend and that his heart grieves, too. We have an open mouth policy in our family and everyone is free to talk about Mitch (or anything) at any time – not to bring undue attention to Mitch nor to suggest that our kids aren't important, but because Mitch was important to all of us in different ways. We believe open and honest communication is a healthy part of healing. So, each time I heard Ethan out as he expressed a little more about what was on his mind and heart. I softly acknowledged his sorrows and his feelings. I then told Ethan I was grateful that he was still with me and that I loved him very much; I told him there is nobody quite like him and that I was so proud of the young man he was becoming. I didn't want my son to just hear my words, I wanted him to feel them. I hope he did.
On our second day of the trip day Ethan took surfing lessons. At first he wanted to take on the waves by himself and he wasn't sure he wanted to be held back by taking lessons. I strongly encouraged him to learn from those who could help him leapfrog the little things. I told him, “The sooner you learn the basics, the sooner you’ll be able to do just want you want to do ... surf. Otherwise you’ll end up chasing waves and wearing yourself out not knowing what to do and how to do it.” Ethan was wise and agreed to lessons. Soon he was riding waves and doing just what he set out to do. Surfing was a major highlight for him.
Afterward, Ethan and I talked about the symbology of surfing. I told him life isn't much different than surfing - that often we can no more control the events in our lives any more than we can control the tide and surf, but if we know what to look for we can learn to ride the waves and not chase them or become overpowered by them. I told my son that trouble comes to everybody and we can use that trouble to move us forward or it can take us under; that the only thing we can really control is how we respond to circumstances. As with surfing, I told Ethan, now that he knows what to look for he no longer needs to chase waves and save his energy - he can put himself in a position to more easily ride them. I could tell by the look in his eyes Ethan got the metaphor.
The journey of grief doesn't seem to be too different from being in the ocean. Sometimes I can see grief coming, other times it hits me by surprise. But I’m learning what to look for, I’m learning to stop chasing waves of grief and how to better ride them out. And I know I’m not the only one in these terrible waters – so are my wife and kids. And I must care for them as while I learn to surf tides of trouble.
It was the last day of November and we were about to head home, for our time at the family ranch had drawn to an end. Little Mitch asked if he could drive a 4-wheeler one more time. I had no idea it would be his last time. Because Mitch didn't have the muscle strength to run or ride a bike like other young boys, he anxiously sought after other ways to feel the rush of wind through his hair and on his face. Riding 4-wheelers helped him do just that … and Mitch felt powerful and strong, even normal, if only for a moment. Had I known this was his last opportunity to do what he loved so much, I would have foregone meals and work and sleep for days-on-end in order to help him drink in as much life as humanly possible. We simply didn't know what little time was left, we just did the best we knew and hoped we passed the test.
As we prepared for what would be Mitchell’s last 4-wheeling adventure, this sweet little boy sat quietly in his grandmother’s garage and put his shoes on. The chair upon which he sat had deep cushions and nearly swallowed him up. Without complaining, Mitch silently struggled to get up from the couch but he couldn't – his muscles were much too weak and the cushions comfortably deep. Ethan noticed his brother quietly struggling and in need of help and quickly ran to his aid.
This was a simple exchange that was over in the blink of an eye. Had I been outside, impatiently yelling for them to hurry up, I would have missed this silent sermon of love and service between two children. What’s more, had I been outside honking my horn anxious to complete the task of spending time, I would have missed the point of everything … for riding 4-wheelers wasn't the point, even though little Mitch loved it so, it was doing things together with love. That’s all that matters in the end. It is something of a heavenly paradox that while we raise our young children, they are also raising us; for I am a very different person from the young gallivant I once was so many years ago.
As I watched this spontaneous act of brotherly love, it occurred to me in the most profound way Mitchell’s journey was also the journey of our family. Though Mitch walked alone with DMD, because nobody could do it for him, we walked beside him and cheered him on and did our best to clear the path for him. Our lives were inseparably connected, our journey’s intertwined, yet how much pain and sorrow we would come to know had never crossed our minds.
While Mitch had some best friends in his life, there was none so great as his older brother. These two boys were a match forged in heaven and Mitch loved him deeply. If ever I am tempted to complain about what has gone wrong in my life, I need only look at what has gone right. Ethan was a tender mercy for my son and when I think upon that gift alone, something gone right, I cannot help but weep for gratitude. For I am reminded that I have a Father who cares enough to give little comforts no matter how big our troubles seem.
Since Mitchell’s passing I have noticed whenever Ethan sees a photo or video of Mitch I see a softness fill his countenance that is distinct and visible. There is a tenderness and admiration in his eyes I don’t normally see in anyone, for any reason. Ethan loves his little brother just as much as Mitch loves him – and that makes my heart sing. As cool a young man Ethan is becoming, I pray he never loses his softness; for softness is the fertile soil upon which relationships grow deep. I also hope he never confuses softness for weakness – they are not the same. Not at all. I think Mitch was just as much a gift to Ethan as Ethan was to him.
Mitchell’s Journey has taught me to take great comfort in the little comforts, for they all add up. When I look at this simple image of two young boys meant to be together, who learned how to lift each other in different ways, I begin to see the bigger picture. I sense we are not left comfortless, neither are we alone. Faintly, as quiet as a whisper can possibly be, I hear something and it is heavenly.
I remember watching my sweet wife’s expression when she first laid eyes on Mitch in the delivery room. She immediately wept tears of joy and was overcome with a love that transcends words – a love only a mother can know. I cried watching her love him – I was so happy. Soon I got to hold our little baby for the first time; he was so tiny and I marveled at the miracle of life. I loved him the moment I laid eyes on him – for he was my son.
It is so hard to say goodbye after 10 years of life and love. I wish I had the power to heal him. I wish I could have traded places with my son.
I will never forget a tender conversation I had with Mitch just after he returned home from the hospital to die. I was tucking him in and he wanted me to cuddle with him for a while. As I lay by my broken son, we gazed into each other’s eyes and had the most soulful exchange I have ever experienced. I told Mitch that while I had been scrambling to find a way to save him, it was he who was saving me. With tears in my eyes, I thanked my little boy for being such a good example to our family and for inspiring me to be a better daddy, husband and person. Mitch cried and told me how happy he was and that he felt loved. With a kiss to his forehead my little boy continued to cry happy tears and tenderly burrowed his frail body into mine and drifted off to sleep. I wept a strange potpourri of tears that night – and many nights thereafter. Little Mitch was then, and remains today, the most profound and painful gift of my life. And though I journey through the wilderness of grief, I’m on my way, but I’m not there yet.
There is nothing linear about grief. I have often heard “time heals all” as though that glib phrase should give peace of mind or assuage a grieving heart. At least for me, that phrase has little to no meaning – and in some cases it does more harm than good. I would be quite content to never hear that phrase again. Time alone is no healing agent; that is a loosely written fiction. I believe healing has less to do with the passage of time but rather, like all things in life, it’s what we do with our time that matters. Surely time is necessary, but it is a minor ingredient. If I spend my time finding ways to bind my wounds and dress them with healing things – I am more likely to accelerate my path to recovery. On the other hand, if I mask my pain or agitate tender wounds, they may never close or heal. Time is a neutral thing – it’s what I do with it that matters.
I am on my way to healing, but I’m not there yet. I don’t know that I’ll ever fully recover from the loss of my son. What I can say is today is better than yesterday; not because time has simply passed but because I am allowing myself to do what I must – to accept my sorrows, and to not run from them but rather let pain take its course. I am learning to grieve in my own way, to hurt as long as I need to, to cry often (and I cry often), to write and remember everything that comes to mind. And, of course, I pray. I pray for peace and understanding. I pray also that my son knows how much I love and miss him. What I wouldn't do to hold him for 5 minutes.
I recently read a saying, “Those who mistake success for significance, will lead a deeply unfulfilled existence.” I pray I will never confuse the two. I would sooner give someone a boost, a smile or a loving hand than fill my wallet with that which does not satisfy. After all, you can’t fill an empty soul with empty things.
Little Mitch, my broken son, has taught me how to truly live ... to think less on the things I get and more on what I give. For my little boy had nothing to his name, save some little toys and modest clothes, his material things were plain. If he had nothing but gave so much, I have much to learn from him. For he lived a quiet life of significance and my heart he did truly win.
I’m on my path to healing, the end I cannot see, for the wilderness of grief seems to stretch out to forever, even to infinity. Please be patient with me my son … for I am broken, too, just in different ways than you. I’m on my way, but I’m not there yet.
We knew the time was soon coming Mitch would lose his ability to do … everything. Although we were in the early stage of DMD, Natalie and I felt it best to sell our home and find a place that would eventually accommodate his physical needs and give us time to grow roots in a community before the storm came. Mitch was such a young boy and didn't have any idea we sold our home and built a new one just because of him – neither did he have any idea the violent storm that was headed his way and would soon rip his life from him. That storm we were told would surely come, came much faster than any of us imagined.
In this photo we were sitting with our kids in the master bedroom; the carpet had just been installed and our home felt like a huge cardboard fort that we were going to start living in. The kids were so excited ... and the little kid in me was, too. At one point Mitch leaned forward and kissed Wyatt’s forehead. Wyatt, being a tiny little baby, toy still in mouth, tried to love his brother in-kind and give him a sloppy kiss as only teething babies know to do. I marvel how children instinctively know love … and I marvel equally how grownups and nations, who, through time and experience ought to know better, tend to forget how to love and be kind.
Wyatt was a tiny baby, just approaching his first birthday. Mitch loved being a big brother and was glad to no longer be the baby of the family. Mitch, having a younger sibling, was beginning to learn a new dimension of love. It is one thing to love and be loved by a parent or an older sibling, but to reach down and care for a little one … that is a different kind of service, a different kind of love. Mitch was learning to love anew. As his father, watching Mitch love his little brother, I was learning to love anew, too.
Because of the way I photo-journal, I often encounter moments unprepared – but I shoot anyway. I have come to appreciate the true beauty of any photo has less to do with light and composition (though helpful), but rather their true beauty is found in the stories they tell. I would rather have a million blurry photos of love and life than any number of staged moments shrink-wrapped technical perfection. Photojournalism, to me, has become something of a metaphor and symbol of how I try to live my life. If I hold out for the perfect moment, if I artificially construct something that isn't real, I will miss out on a million magic moments.
This simple, flawed and dimly lit photo captures my heart because the subjects herein are my heart – and this moment of unrehearsed love between siblings sweeps my heart to a peaceful place and it lingers there a while. I am thankful for those peaceful moments. As much as I try to be in the moment, there is a part of me that wishes to go back in time and re-live these magic moments – to drink it in more slowly and to savor every part of it. Though life can hand out great difficulties and bring me to my knees, there is beauty in the details of the moment – more than I had eyes to see.
To me, it is ironic that when I was young and growing I wanted to race to tomorrow and chase the promise and secrets it kept. Time, like a giant, invisible key was slowly unlocking me from the tyranny of parents enforcing curfews, bedtimes, chores and homework – tomorrow couldn't come fast enough. The minutes felt like hours and months miniature years. Time was an uncompromising tether keeping me from the freedom of the future. But tomorrow has come and gone … over 14,000 of them, in fact. Suddenly I have found my years add up and I no longer want for tomorrow or the quick passage of time, except to see my little son again. The older I get the faster time feels and I wish it to slow down like it seemed when I was young – because today I appreciate the value of magic moments in ways I didn't back then.
Tomorrow can keep its secrets, every last one … for there is magic in the moment and I will seek after them until my time is done.