So grateful this Thanksgiving for my little family: they are all I ever wanted and more than I ever dreamed. I'm thankful for yesterday, today and the promise of tomorrow.
Photo circa 2009
I had a moment of truth in my life many years ago. I was lost in a different kind of wilderness – not a wilderness of grief and sorrow but a dark wilderness just the same. The path before my feet was shrouded in a deep fog and for a while I didn't know if God even lived. I understand what atheists think and feel and I have explored their arguments and logic, none of it is lost on me. And, for a season, I suppose I was counted among them. But then I made a choice to truly open my heart, mind, and soul to the possibilities and something remarkable happened.
So while I was wandering in the wilderness of doubt and darkness I remember searching for peace and understanding and for light. After months of study, soul-searching and preparation I remember kneeling at the side of my bed as a young college student and asking my Father if He was there if He even existed in the first place. That very moment I was overcome with an impression I cannot describe. It was at once distinctly spiritual and at the same time deeply emotional. I knew the difference between the two. One thing’s for sure, it was undeniable and not of me. There I knelt as a young, broken and once-confused 18-year-old and I was given eyes to see and a mind to comprehend. I wept. And I wept. I came to know with a certain knowledge that day we have a Father who lives and loves us … and all that happens in this mortal place is for a greater purpose. That experience and a few others that followed prepared me for darker woods yet to come. Darker, in fact, than I had a mind to imagine. Only the next time I journeyed in the wilderness I had a candle that I might see.
Fast forward more than two decades and I found myself on the edge of my son’s bed as he folded his tender arms and said a prayer of his own to his Father … our Father. He had a week to live and despite the heavy burdens he shouldered, this little boy carried a heart overflowing with love and gratitude. I remember watching little Mitch humbly fold his arms and close his eyes as he spoke with his Father in a spirit of deep thanks. He asked for nothing. Once again Mitch reminded me of one of my favorite sayings, “Gratitude turns what we have into enough.” For Mitch, he always had enough.
I realize that I speak of my personal faith in God often. It is never my intent to sound preachy, fanatical or pretentious; I am only sharing my experience and feelings as they truly are. Why I do this publically, I still do not know. One of the reasons I write of God is I think it’s difficult, if not impossible, for anyone to peer into the deep abyss of death and not contemplate what’s on the other side if anything at all. In my estimation, the reality of God is either child’s play or it is the only play that really matters.
So, as I knelt at my son’s bed, hearing his soft voice and even softer sentiments, I wondered in my mind and heart how my little boy so broken could be so put together. This little 10-year-old was a towering example to me that I can smile even when all seems lost. He showed me that though broken, I needn't fall apart. Suddenly I remembered that experience kneeling at my other bed so many years before and I felt an echo of those same heavenly impressions again.
In what seemed the blink of an eye from this little moment, I found myself broken-hearted and struggling to breathe at my son’s funeral. While preparing for the funeral I asked a dear friend of mine, Kenneth Cope, a talented musician and man of faith to sing one of his songs at Mitchie’s funeral. He was so kind and gracious and performed, “Broken.” Here are the first 3 verses:
Broken clouds give rain
Broken soil grows grain
Broken bread feeds man for one more day
Broken storms yield light
The break of day heals night
Broken pride turns blindness into sight
Broken souls that need His mending
Broken hearts for offering
Could it be that God loves broken things
I loved that song when I first heard it. I loved it even more when my friend sang this song at my dear son’s funeral. As I listened to his inspired words through song, I couldn't help but think about why we break and what comes of it. Although my son’s broken heart touched mine –in truth, Mitchell’s broken heart broke mine.
I am grateful my friend Kenneth gently reminded me broken things can give way to better things. I am grateful Mitch taught me though we may break, we needn't break apart. And I am thankful for my Father who has shown me time and again, broken things can indeed mend ... and often, to a much greater end.
A few weeks ago I took my wife and kids to a nearby forest to take some family photos. We each held a photo of us and little Mitch as a memorial to a fallen family member we each love and miss very much. Yet despite our sorrows, we remain grateful to still have each other.
This year my heart will still be heavy because I’ll miss how Mitch used to sit by me at family dinners and softly hold my hand at the table. I’ll miss how he used to snuggle up with me on the couch as we watched movies. I’ll miss giving him piggyback rides up the stairs because his muscles were too weak. I’ll miss his laugh and brilliant wit. I’ll miss his … everything. As much as grief weighs heavy on my heart, threatening to sink me, I have 4 other people whom I love with all of my heart and their presence in my life lifts me.
I love my wife. She is as kind as she is beautiful. She would sooner fall on the sword for those she loves than harm them in any way. Self-sacrificing, wise and loving, I find myself always taking notes and learning from her natural ways; ways, that any without thought on her part, that are far beyond me. Each day my sweet wife and friend, without saying a word, teaches me how to be.
I love Laura-Ashley. She is beautiful, smart and kind. I enjoy watching her explore new territory as she pursues the arts and sciences. She is learning to play the guitar, draw and write. Her trouble in life will be deciding what to do – because she can do anything. I hope she comes to feel (not just know) how proud I am of the young woman she is. Ethan, my oldest son, is a remarkable young man who is so passionate about so many things. I love to watch him ride his motorcycle and make jumps with his bare hands and the dirt. I love to watch him skate and play lacrosse. Mostly, I love to watch befriend everybody and reach out to those who don’t feel they fit in. A few weeks ago he got in trouble at the dinner table for teasing his younger brother, like brothers often do. He went to his room and then played the song, “I’m only human.” As we heard that music play in the distance we all fell out of our chairs laughing as Ethan came out of his room with a big smile. I am so proud of who he is today and even more excited to see what he becomes. The future is bright for him. Of course there’s Wyatt. He is a particular blessing to our family. Wyatt has a heart as big as his mind – and they both loom enormous. He is always thinking about others and has learned early in his life the true power of faith and prayer. He reminds me that often it is the least among us, the youngest and most inexperienced, who become the most powerful examples on earth. I know many adults who because they are educated think they are wise – they forget who they are and stop seeing the world through heaven’s eyes. They fumble in the most fundamental ways. Though Wyatt is young, he is a towering example of faith and goodness to our little family. When I think of my many blessings, Wyatt is chief among them.
This Thanksgiving my heart will be filled to overflowing with gratitude. My cup, though cracked and tattered with loss and sorrow, is running over. Though my hands tremble from grief and my heart still quakes because I am tired and weak – I know to whom I must look to find strength for tomorrow. For there are battles ahead and many more tears to shed … but if we stick together and fight on, we'll find victory on the morrow.
Thanksgiving and Christmas are two of my favorite holidays; I love them for all that they are and the greater meanings they point to. Like anything of deep importance, there is often a greater meaning to things – even pain and suffering. The trouble is we can get lost on either sides of the spectrum. On the one hand, we can so get wrapped up in the tinsel and superficial of the holidays that we miss the point of things. Or, we can find ourselves on the other side of the spectrum and become fanatical and shun the fun of the holidays. Neither are balanced nor are they wise, for the things of the heart are discerned like an art and seen only with heavens eyes.
In like manner, when I think of my sorrows, I will look past the paper and things I can see, and listen with my heart for the lessons of the soul Heaven tries to teach me. There is a greater meaning to everything – if only we'll open our other eyes. Then, and only then, will we truly see.
I took this photo a few weeks ago while on a long drive home from a business trip deep in the heart of Nevada. I was teaching a group of business leaders about how to close the gap between what they value and what they do. I remember telling these grown, battle-hardened men, a little about my experience with Mitch and how the decision to live my values early in my life has been a particular blessing. I told them whether they experience the death of a loved one, or their daughter simply graduates from college, meets the love of her life and starts a family of her own ... everything they know today ... everything they may be tempted to take for granted will change. Tomorrow will always be different from today.
I looked these men in the eye and told them when they look back on their life, a year from now or a lifetime from now, if they live what they value they'll be able to look back and be glad they lived the life they lived. At the end of the day, isn't that what everyone wants? I think so.
On my drive home, as the sun was about to disappear behind the lonely desert mountains, I couldn't help but think of little Mitch and how much he would have loved to see what I saw. I longed for him to be sitting next to me, holding my hand, telling me about everything on his mind. Even more, I longed to love and comfort him and show him his daddy was there for him, always. The passenger seat felt especially empty that day.
So swept up by the beautiful array of light that was sinking into the darkness, I pulled my car over to take this photo I thought to myself, "Good night little Mitch. Sweet dreams. I really miss you."
As I returned to my car and drove into the night sky the words of Michael Faudet came to mind over and over again: "Good night. May you fall asleep in the arms of a dream, so beautiful, you'll cry when you awake."
I had tears in my eyes the rest of the drive home because that was exactly what I wanted. I prayed in my heart I would have just such a dream that night. I did not.
I haven't had many dreams of Mitch since he passed away … only two, in fact. Both of them were deeply emotional and lovely.
I hope to dream of him in future days. I yearn to see him in some distant field where I will run at reckless speed to hug him and hold him and I will wet his neck with my tears. A dream so beautiful I will cry long before I wake.
Yet, when I stop to think about it, I have already lived a life equal to my most beautiful dream. I have a wife and four wonderful children who are in every way a miracle of life and love and heaven above. When I think of that, my soul awakens with gratitude. And I cry.