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
A few years ago an employee of mine was getting married, and many of the people with whom we worked came to his wedding reception. Bruce Newbold, a dear friend, and colleague of many years came to the celebration. He no longer worked with our team but because we were all friends, he came not out of social obligation but of love and friendship.
“Heaven’s hand, although invisible at the time, was deep in the tapestry of our lives.”
The summer sun was about to set, and the wedding reception was nestled in a beautiful garden, deep in the shadow of a tree-covered hill. The air was comfortably warm, and it was another one of those perfect summer evenings you wish you could bottle up and save. I took a deep breath and drank in the moment, grateful for all that was – seen and unseen.
As friends and family of the newly wedded couple arrived, I began to see some of our colleagues and friends arrive, too. When Bruce and his lovely wife showed up, he was quick to say hello and offer his love to our family. Bruce had a tender place in his heart for Mitch, and I remember being so moved when I saw my friend give Mitch a loving hug. I could tell by the look on my son’s face that he felt special. Immediately I fought back the tears because my heart was filled with gratitude. I think everybody deserves to feel important and valued – and on this day Mitch felt all of that and so much more.
Bruce has a special gift of making people feel valued – but more importantly, he causes them to feel they are enough, just the way they are. Mitch sometimes wondered if he was enough … after all, he couldn't run and jump like other boys. In his little mind and heart, he sometimes wondered if he was worth less than others who could do things he couldn't. Mitch yearned to be like “regular kids.” On those occasions, I remember telling my son, with tears in my eyes, that I loved him no matter what. I reminded him that we are all mortal and flawed … and though imperfect I loved him perfectly. I didn't use the words, “you are enough” because I didn't know them at the time – but he knew my meaning, and it was the same.
I wonder how often people live out their lives wondering if they are enough … whether they measure up to some arbitrary or unreasonable set of ever-changing standards. Sometimes it helps to be reminded we are so much more than our mortal bodies and that we are just visitors in this place.
Without uttering a sound, Bruce speaks in ways more powerful than words … saying again and again, “You are enough.” Bruce has the gift of lift- and that’s just what he did for little Mitch on this day and many days before and after.
At the moment of this photo, my son’s fatal diagnosis was far from my mind. Mitch was healthy and seemed to be doing better than anyone expected. It was always the quiet prayer of my heart that somehow, some way, he would be spared. To my great sorrow and without mercy, Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy stripped my son of strength and eventually life.
I cannot look at this image and not sense a strong impression that there was so much more happening than I realized. Heaven’s hand, although invisible at the time, was deep in the tapestry of our lives. You see, this man was more than a friend to our family, he also played an important role in Mitchell’s Journey and became an instrument of God in ways I may never share publicly – for some things are too sacred to share. It will suffice to say, this good man and this little broken boy … my little boy … have some heavenly ties that both break my heart and sew it back together again.
I am grateful for those who, like Bruce, have the gift of lift. For they lend a helping hand to heavy hearts and souls that are lonely or sick. And on dark days when I'm discouraged and want to give up, when I struggle and wonder if I measure up, I think of my son, and then my Father and I hear a heavenly whisper, “You are enough.”
We were blessed to have Luke, one of Mitchell's best friends, stay at our home last night and hang out with our family. Luke is very much like family to us. This morning the boys wanted to visit Mitchell. So we drove them to the cemetery to visit our little boy. At one point Luke walked up to the headstone and placed his hand over the image of a wheelchair as if to rub it away and said "I wish this never happened" --- referring to muscular dystrophy and how it took his life. The lump in my throat was so big I could hardly breathe. With all that I am, I wish it never happened, either. Somewhere on the other side of this hell is heaven - and I seek after that.
The night before Mitchell passed away we sensed time was running out. As the sky quickly darkened the air grew eerily cold … and with each breadth, we felt a heavy, somber feeling grow within our hearts. That abyss that was inching to devour our son had its mouth stretched wide and was beginning to swallow him up.
We were preparing to cuddle with Mitch in his room and read him stories to comfort him when we received a call from his best friend and next-door neighbor who wanted to see if he could play. Unaware that Mitchell was already slipping away and was coming in and out of consciousness (mostly out), we asked this young boy if we could speak to his mother. We told her Mitch didn't have much time and that perhaps her son would want to come over one last time. Within a few minutes of that call, this young boy came over to say goodbye to our baby, his best buddy.
Mitch absolutely loved Luke. Whenever he heard his friend knock on the door Mitch would yell out, “Lukey!!!” Mitch was always excited to spend time with him … so this last visit would mean more to Mitch than I think Luke realizes to this day.
What I then witnessed in the quite of Mitchell’s room was the most tender interaction between two young boys I have ever seen. It was a sacred exchange between two boys made of clay – each being shaped by experience, hardship, sacrifice, and love.
Lying on the bed was our young boy much too young to die. Standing next to him, another young boy holding his hand, bearing his young soul … much too young to say goodbye. It was not my place to ask God why such heavy things were required by hands of these two innocent souls. Instead, I began to ponder deeply and pray in my heart to understand what we were meant to learn from this hardship.
These aren't the only two children to experience this, and they won’t be the last. But they were our kids … and we loved them so. It hurt so very much to see.
This young boy, who had loved Mitch like a brother and faithfully served him with all his heart told Mitchell how much he meant to him, that because of Mitch he learned what it meant to be a true friend and that he would never forget him. Luke struggled to hold back the tears, his voice was broken with emotion, as Mitchell lay unable to move or speak. His eyes barely open, my little son listened to tender words of affection and friendship. My wife and I wept as we witnessed love and friendship in its purest form. I knew that Luke, Mitchell’s faithful little friend, was breaking inside.
Afterward, I hugged him and told him how much my wife and I loved and appreciated him. I told him I was sure if Mitchell were able to speak he would tell Luke that he loved him like a brother and that he appreciated how he was always there to help him when his muscles were too weak, and how much it meant to him that he always cheered him up when he was sad. I told Luke that he taught Mitchell and his parents what it meant to be “your brother’s keeper” and that we were so grateful to him.
Later that evening I couldn't help but think of that tender experience between these two young boys who were forced to grow up much too fast. I pondered the meaning of human suffering and the difficult experiences we are sometimes required to endure. I have learned to appreciate an old Jewish proverb, "Don't pray for lighter burdens, pray for a stronger back". It would seem that in all religious texts, no matter one’s religion, God makes no apology for pain and suffering. In fact, I have come to understand there is a sacred relationship between suffering and spirituality if we learn to listen and endure it well.
I admit the burden of losing my precious son has my knees trembling, hands shaking and my soul in tremendous pain. There exist no words in the human language to describe the depths of this sorrow. It is simply, utterly, bewilderingly heavy. But, like all suffering, the sting of that pain can make way to a deeper compassion toward others, a greater capacity to love, a stronger desire to reach toward God and understand His purposes.
The truth is, we are [all of us] no different than these two little boys. We are all made of clay. And with each choice we make, each reaction to events in our life, we carve out something beautiful or something hideous – something that loves or hates. We need only look at our own life experience to know this is true … we have all seen some let the clay in their hearts harden and become brittle or unmovable. Others allow the tears of suffering to keep their clay soft and pliable.
It has been an agonizing 1 year and 7 months since I have seen my precious son. My clay is still drenched with tears and soggy. One day the tears will eventually dry and I will do all that I can to remain pliable.