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.
I was blessed with an opportunity to speak at a Women’s Conference this weekend about Mitchell and his Journey. As we are fast approaching the anniversary of his passing my heart has been especially heavy and emotions have been all over the place. Speaking about my son was hard to do, but necessary.
My wife and children came to listen and I was so touched by their love and support. As they sat in the front row I couldn't help but look upon their faces and feel deep love and gratitude for each of them. I have been blessed beyond my wildest dreams to have each of them in my life.
During my talk I shared a few metaphors that to me represented much of Mitchell’s Journey, and now my own. The first was the abyss of which I have so often written about. The second is about my wilderness, an essay I have yet to post. The third was my Everest, some of which I’ve already posted. And fourthly, a heavenly constellation of tender mercies, another essay I have yet to post. I will post those things in due time.
Honestly, I don't know why I keep writing about little Mitch. I can't stop thinking about him - and I don't think I ever will. I don't write to wallow or fixate on my sorrows. I don't do it to draw attention. I suppose I'm trying to cope with the loss of my son by sorting things out and putting my heart back together … and there are pieces everywhere. Often when I sit down to write I say to myself at the end “Well, I didn't see that one coming.”
For me this journey has been as much about discovery as anything.
I am still learning, and I ever will. While my heart is broken, my faith is stronger still. It matters not how deep the abyss or dark and frightening the wilderness. There are summits to reach and heavens that speak, “Keep going, my child. Press on.”