It was only a few years ago we were in Wyoming to spend time with family. My father-in-law was born in Wyoming but lived much of his life in Utah. As his retirement neared he decided to purchase a small cabin deep in the vaguely flat fields of Wyoming. At first I thought it a strange move and often wondered why he purchased a place out there. Then it occurred to me how, at some point in our lives, most everybody yearns to go home. Suddenly I understood.
So on this mid-Saturday morning, sitting in this small cabin filled with all manner of children, grandchildren and in-laws I saw something that swept my heart to the heavens and back. I had just sat on the couch for a bit to write in my journal when I noticed through the chaos of people and things a tender conversation between Mitch and his grandfather. This was the same grandfather who, just a few years later, would give Mitch a puppy to call his own, just weeks before he died. You can watch that sweet exchange here: vimeo.com/58228257
Mitch had just painted a hat and was showing his loving grandfather what he had worked so hard to do. I could tell by the tender look on Mitchell’s face he appreciated how much grandpa cared. Though I was surrounded by the noise of 15 people scuttling about the activities of the day, time slowed down for me and I watched this quiet exchange with tears in my eyes. I hid my face behind my camera, so as not to be noticed or draw attention. I was so grateful for the love and quiet attention my son received – for this moment, among many others, shaped him.
My father-in-law has no idea this picture exists and I am quite certain he doesn't remember this ordinary, but beautiful exchange. But I remember this and many more like them – and I have photos of them, too. These moments remembered are like bandages that bind up my broken heart. They remind me that my son had a good life and that he was surrounded by people who loved him – and Mitch felt it. These happy moments give my heart, stricken with grief, a moment of peace and sweet release.
As I look upon this nearly invisible exchange, a conversation that lasted no more than 2 minutes, I am reminded why we are here in the first place. I can’t help but wonder if the Father of our souls lovingly looks at our own messy efforts, despite how critical we might be of ourselves, and is pleased to see we did the best we knew how. Mitch did the best he knew how, and it was perfect. Nothing more could have been asked of him – I was so proud of Mitch.
The older I get the less I fixate on perfection and the more I am satisfied with growth – however fast or slow. I know many perfectionists whose greatest weakness is perfectionism. They are tyrannized by order, symmetry, and technical flawlessness – so much so, their appetite for perfection bleeds into their human exchanges and they often miss the point of things and damage relationships. Oh there’s a time and a place for perfection; I expect a bridge, or a building, or an aircraft be engineered perfectly. But in matters of the soul, we tend to build and rebuild ourselves with materials we cannot see – which makes the struggle of human growth woven with great difficulty.
At least for me, life is an exercise of trial and error, failures and triumphs, stumbling down and getting back on our feet again. In the end, I believe we’ll all come to know the purpose of life is to gain experience and grow. One day, in that place beyond the hills, I believe we will look back on our own struggles and see how, because of them, we were made stronger, more compassionate and more like our Father.
I’ll never forget Mitchell’s messy hat, colored with chaotic splotches from his young, inexperienced hand. It was perfect. Nor will I ever forget this seasoned grandfather, a man who quietly longed to be home, who offered love and attention to my son. Though, mortal and imperfect, in that moment he was perfect.
I hope, at the end of my days, my Father will see far past my weaknesses, which are many, and look upon my heart; for there is love in there, it has been that way from the very start.
I am grateful for this sweet exchange, and many like them, that remind me to look for perfect moments, not perfect people. Perfection, at least in matters of the soul, has more to do with effort than exactness – the invisible things we do, over time, that shape our heart, minds and souls.
We just returned from a weekend trip to Bear Lake – a place we've frequented over the years as a family. This was the first time we went there without Mitch.
The lake, nestled deep in the mountains, was as beautiful and serene as I remembered it to be. Because I tend to be deeply sentimental I attach vivid memories to places, things and moods. It is both a blessing and a burden. Almost everything reminds me of something. Bear Lake was no exception and reminded me of little Mitch because he had some great times there. So, as we reached the mountain summit and saw the lake for the first time since Mitchell’s passing I had to swallow my tears – for I knew my son loved to be there and he wasn't … not the way we wanted him with us.
As we approached the lake I made a conscious decision to turn my attention to my wife and kids because they were all I had left – and though I thought about Mitch often, I gave my family all that I knew to give. I wasn't perfect, but I gave it my best. I hope they felt it.
One of the difficulties of grief is learning how to move forward while part of your heart is forever frozen in time – ever longing for the one you lost. To say this process is difficult is an understatement.
On Saturday we rented a boat to water ski. Wyatt, my youngest son, was terrified when we left the harbor; this was the first time he saw me operate a boat and he was convinced I was going to crash. He cried and wanted to go back to shore. Before long he settled down and I let him steer the boat for a while. Once he understood how relatively easy it was to operate a boat, he relaxed. Wyatt no longer thought I was going to crash. It was neat to see Wyatt’s transformation from fear to confidence. Like many things in life, he needed to experience it to truly understand it. So it is with the purpose of life, too. We can talk about the virtues of faith at great length; we can write books and examine faith as an academic exercise; we can stand at pulpits and discuss the idea of faith – but it is only when the lights go out and we must take those terrifying steps in the darkness that we begin to truly understand faith. Until the trial of our own faith, it is merely wordplay and postulates.
I took this photo of Mitch a few years ago while at Bear Lake. Because Mitchell’s legs were weak from DMD, his aunt Miriam pushed him so he could get more speed. Mitch smiled and laughed and it seemed as if he felt like a ‘regular kid’ for a moment. I will forever look back at moments like these and feel gratitude in my heart. Though my son was oppressed by a debilitating disease, with the help of others he felt a rush of freedom.
This image hangs in my garage next to the 5 shovels that were used to bury my son. While those shovels are poignant symbols of love and loss, reminding me each day to be sober and sane, this image is also a symbol to me … a reminder to appreciate the power of now – for I will never have now again.
I often think back at the time I took this photo of Mitch– there was a lot going on in my professional life. It seemed as though the weight of the world was on my shoulders and I could have had a million excuses to postpone this trip a year or to stay home and work. Had I confused my values and priorities, had I decided work was more important than family, this moment, and a million like them, would have never happened. Regret is merely disappointment over the misuse of moments. I vow to never live a life of regret.
This image reminds me to never trade that which is good for that which is greater. I know when I die I won't look back and wish I spent more hours at the office. My most treasured memories won't be at a computer or in a conference room – they will be with the ones I love. And that will be my gift to them – the gift of time and attention … the gift of experience and memories. Though work is vital and important I know where it fits with my life priorities and I will never confuse them. My little son has taught me there is nothing more powerful than now. For now is when memories are made … not tomorrow, not some day in the future. Now.
When my kids were especially little I started a game called “Gut Busters” – which was basically human bumper cars. The title of this game became something of a metaphor for the participant and observer – whether through smashing or laughing, it was a gut-busting experience. This idea isn't new – but to my kids it was –and that was all that really mattered. We would stuff pillows from the couch in their pajamas and they would run into each other and fall to the floor. Everyone would giggle and laugh and it was a great way to get their wiggles out before they went to sleep.
It was the evening of my birthday (2007) when these sweet boys wanted to have an honorary smash-up-derby. I’ll never forget how much Wyatt looked like SpongeBob, how energetically Ethan flexed his little chicken wings, and how precious Mitch, who always felt physically awkward, pointed his finger in the air meaning to do a thumbs up. Mitch wanted to be strong and powerful like his brothers – but in the end, his life traded physical power for a power of a different kind.
A few weeks prior to this moment with my boys, I stumbled into something songwriter Guy Lombardo said, “Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think.” For some reason, that quote pressed against me like a cold breeze and I couldn't shake the feeling the hour was later than I knew. Yet, there was no indication Mitch was in any trouble of any kind. For my son death would surely visit – but it wasn't supposed to happen for another 20 years. It would only be 5 years from this photo before we would learn Mitchell’s heart was beginning to fail. Less than 6 years before the end.
Not knowing the perils ahead, we took heed to those quiet whispers that told us the hour was later than we knew. Though my heart cries out today over the death of my son and I am very much pained therewith, I am grateful we responded to those whispers and drank in the moments the best we knew how.
Do I have regrets for time poorly spent? Absolutely. But mistakes are part of our human experience. I carry regret the same way I might walk away from a conversation saying to myself, palm to forehead, “Oh, I should have thought to say ____.” I don’t carry regret as a burden or an instrument to lash self-punishment. Rather, my regrets serve as a reminder to do better next time.
Were I to live out my days in regret for the things I could have (or should have) done better, I would not have the presence of mind to enjoy life. Though I carry the weight of grief and sorrow over the loss of my son, a weight so heavy I can scarcely shoulder, I have 3 other children whom I love just as much. And I will enjoy my time with them while they are with me. Because, even still, the hour is later than I think.
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.