Wyatt’s birthday is next week and I can’t help but think of the day he was born. As I mentioned in an earlier post, each time we had a child I became more emotional in the delivery room because I knew what that little person would do to my heart and soul. I knew these little people would teach me to love and grow in ways I didn't have a mind to know.
My young daughter took this photo of me holding baby Wyatt at the hospital. I remember this moment so vividly. Little Mitch in his moon boots, brown corduroys and green sweater with a moose on it galloped toward me, excited to see his baby brother. Mitch would tell me moments later, "Dad, dis is my baby bwuv-o." Ethan, wearing a handmade winter hat and his favorite school clothes sat next to me and extended his finger to touch little Wyatt’s. Wyatt was so tiny. Laura-Ashley, with her pigtails and hot chocolate-stained Christmas shirt, carried with her a look of confidence and excitement … for she wanted to show her little brothers how to usher our baby home.
A fresh blanket of snow covered everything as if to remind me of the purity of children and the goodness that is in them. I remember being surrounded by these little people, my little people, and how my heart was overflowing with gratitude. Though Christmas was just around the corner, I wasn't concerned about what sat under the tree. For I had all the gifts I ever wanted gathered round me.
Sixteen years ago there were 4 less people on the earth and I was quite content without them. That was until these 4 tiny people came into my life and now, I can't imagine a life without them. That is the miracle of life and family. Somehow, some way, these little children grew roots in my heart and forever change me from the inside.
Before I knew it I discovered I was no longer an individual but woven into each other’s lives. My happiness was inextricably connected with their well-being. My family turned ME into WE. I have discovered that is the only way to be.
So, as I held baby Wyatt, surrounded by my other children, I vowed this day and a million times since to be the best father I knew how. Yet, with all my desire to be the caped hero or a knight in glistening armor … I was in truth a peasant in tattered clothing. Though my vision of the parent I wanted to be was grand … epic even, I fell short of my heart’s desire. I've lost my patience, I've hurt my kid’s feelings and sometimes, perhaps too often, I wasn't the best example. But I have always loved them. They have never gone a day that they haven’t heard me tell them how much I love them. In every way I knew how, I tried to show it to them, too. More importantly, I tried to show it to them in ways most meaningful to them – to show my love in their love language. Even still, I fall woefully short. But I keep trying because I keep loving them. I will never stop loving them.
I realize I write of Mitch a lot but I love my other children just as much.
The difference is Mitch is gone. And that hurts. It hurts a lot.
As John Green recently wrote, “It hurts because it mattered.”
A few weeks ago I stumbled into an old 2004 Christmas card I made with my little family. Each card was a chocolate bar covered by custom wrapper with a short update on our family. I don’t recall any companies making such things back then but that never stopped me from trying something new. Natalie and I printed, cut and adhered each wrapper to every bar.
I wasn't a designer and this was my first crude attempt at doing this. It wasn't very sophisticated and was more a labor of love than anything. We got better at it over the years but I learned early on it is never really the thing we give that matters; but rather the meaning behind the thing that makes our heart sing. So, when I saw this chocolate bar my mind was awash with memories and warm feelings of a time long gone; a time my children used to crawl over me and wrestle me to the ground when I came home from work. A time before Mitchell’s diagnosis. A time before grief, disappointment and darkness.
When I saw that clunky little card I was grateful I had the gift of my children and felt a glimmer of hope there will be gentler days ahead.
On the back of the chocolate bar was something that looked very much like any chocolate bar you might purchase, only the words were about our family.
There was a block of text that read:
Laura-Ashley (6 years old) is an artist. She spends a great deal of her spare time drawing pictures and constructing stapled paper books for us to read. She is the top student of her Kindergarten class.
Ethan (4 years old) is an absolute sweetie. Very kind to others and has become quite an entertainer of adult audiences. He likes to sing and build things with blocks and Legos and is rather proficient with a computer.
Mitch (2 years old) is a wonderful cuddler. Mitch has learned to stand up for himself and often provokes his older brother by slapping his back and running off laughing. We’ll have to keep an eye on him. ;)
Where you might ordinarily see “Nutrition Facts” I replaced with the following “Spiritual Facts”
_____________________________
SPIRITUAL FACTS
Serving Size 1 Child (between 15 & 30 lbs.)
Amount Per Serving
Joy & Rejoicing ………………….100%
Love ……………………………... 100%
Patience
- On a good day …...….……. 50%
- On a bad day …...……...…. 100%
Laughter ………………………… 100%
Compassion …………………….. 100%
Fulfillment ………………………. 100%
Happiness ………………...……... 100%
Heartache ……………..………… 20%
Empathy ………………………… 100%
_____________________________
FAMILY IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL
We replaced the actual ingredients with the following:
INGREDIENTS: MILK CHOCOLATE, A LOT OF LOVE AND APPRECIATION FOR FAMILY, SOME GOOD MEMORIES, A COUPLE OF BUMPS AND BRUISES, AND A LOT OF LAUGHTER.
There were a few other things on it, but you get the idea. Knowing what I know now, I might change a few things: heartache, for example, would go from 20% to 2,000,000%. Love, from 100% to infinity and far beyond.
We only made 100 of these and I kept 2. The chocolate has no doubt gone bad by now and lost its savor; a reminder that everything material has a shelf life. Unlike the chocolate, however, the sweetness of family gets better and better over time. A reminder, too, everything that matters only gets sweeter if we are true.
Last night we went to Primary Children’s Hospital to visit a young girl who is battling cancer. She was one of Mitchell’s classmates the year he died and held a special place in our son’s heart because she was always so kind to him.
Mitch often made references to Addie. I never met her, but I knew of her and how much Mitch appreciated her friendship. Natalie tells me that when she would pick Mitch up from school he would often talk about her and sometimes point out the window of the car and say "Look mom there's Addie, she played with me today during recess." Another evidence that the little things are indeed the big things. It was never lost on Mitch that she could have ran off with the healthy kids and left him behind pursuing any number of social agendas. Yet, she often chose to sacrifice regular play time to be with Mitch instead. I don't know if this young woman realizes what a blessing she was to our son.
Mitch loved Addie; and by the sound of her voice and the things she said, she really loved him. Two childhood friends who taught each other what it means to be love and serve. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall when Mitch was alive so that I might have seen these two friends play outside during recess or giggle at a game of UNO when it was cold outside. My eyes well up with tears when I think about the tender mercy she was to our little boy.
Last year I posted an entry entitled “Nightfall” which was an account of the moment we realized Mitch had passed away. I described the pain and sorrow of losing our son and how the world was especially dark. I described how it wasn't until our spiritual eyes adjusted to the darkness, which darkness was beyond pitch, that we truly began to see. Only in the darkness did we begin to see the stars … little flecks of light, tender mercies that were given to our family from a loving Father. It didn't take long before we began to see the connections between these tender mercies and they began to serve as Heavenly constellations to guide our way. Evidence we are not alone, nor are we forsaken. I made a short video with an excerpt from that entry: vimeo.com/81861739
Along this journey of grief and darkness, I have also discovered the more we look the more we can see. Isn't that the point of anything we're meant to search out and study? Our eyes adjust, our mind finally understands and our souls begin to learn things far beyond the scope of man.
So when I think of this sweet girl and what she did for our little boy, I see an exceedingly bright star. I see a tender mercy from a loving Father, an evidence He was never very far. That heavenly current of which I spoke a few weeks ago brought these two children together so they could learn to love and grow. For that, I am eternally grateful.
Anymore, I don't know that I know much about goodness or courage. Because when I see these young people face what I only witnessed as a spectator; to see them face death and hardship with such grace and courage, I am humbled to my core. I see what I want to become, and so much more.
I don't know how to gather the words to describe how I felt as we left the hospital last night. My heart was overflowing with gratitude and a deep sense all is well. All is well.
To Addie, thank you for loving Mitch and lifting his little heart. I think I see it now … perhaps you were meant to know each other from the very start.
Forever and more, dear Addie, you have our grateful hearts.
You can visit her page here: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Team-Addie-gofightwin/720147784689212
As death circled about, Mitch began to sense the end was coming and started asking questions. Natalie and I did all we could to comfort our son and answer him honestly and compassionately while at the same time not frightening him.
One evening, while he was home on hospice, Mitch and I were in our little movie room in the basement making popcorn. Mitch sat in a chair next to me because he just wanted to hang out. At one point Mitch pointed to a carbonation machine standing on a counter-top that turns water into soda. Just before he was admitted into the hospital he tried a drink from that machine for the first time. He asked me, “Dad, is that what hurt my heart?” My heart fell to the floor as I slowly knelt down and looked him in the eyes and said, “No, son. I would never let you take anything that would hurt you. Your heart is broken because of Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. Your heart is a muscle, just like your arms and legs, and it is getting weak because of DMD.” A look of sadness came over his face as he tried to come to grips with some harsh realities. There was a little boy who just wanted to live and love, to raise a family of his own and to be a dad. None of that would happen for him.
I simply didn't know what hard was until I had to tell my son he was going to die. Every conversation I once thought hard is but a shadow now. A whimper.
Not long after my tender conversation with Mitch, Natalie came into the room and he started asking more questions about life and death. Natalie knelt down and hugged Mitch gently. My little boy leaned his head on his mommy’s shoulder as she comforted him in ways only a mother can. I had to turn my head so I could wipe the tears from my face. Tears that were streaming down my neck.
Over the coming days Mitch would ask questions about what’s on the other side. It is one thing to talk of life after death in church or in the abstract, it is quite another to come face-to-face with it. Death is bewildering.
As Mitch and our family journeyed through the dark wilderness of fear and loss we had strong impressions that so much more was happening. So much more than we realized. Mitch felt it. Natalie felt it. I felt it. Each independent from one another. Mitch talked about his impressions and quiet whispers to the soul. On a few occasions I shared with him some sacred experiences I have had in my life that have shown me there is life after life. I don’t need to rely on anyone’s beliefs – I know for myself, independent of any external source. I looked Mitch in the eyes and bore my soul to him and assured him that we are not alone. The spirit of those conversations were almost palpable.
I wish such a knowledge lessened the pain of loss. It doesn’t. Although I know some things for sure, that doesn't keep me from missing little Mitch with all of my heart. I long for my son like a weary traveler thirsts for water in a barren desert. It is that longing for him that drives me to live a life such that I might see him again.
In my life’s journey, I have come to understand that to know what is on the other side requires a change from the inside. Though I know certain things to be true, I still have a lot of work to do – so many things to change and mend because I am human, deeply flawed and the most broken of all men. But I try. God knows I try. I pray that I never get swallowed up in pride and lose sight of what’s on the other side.
As I wrote not long after Mitch passed away, “There is a place beyond the hills I cannot see. A place my little boy waits for me. I run to him.”