When Mitch was a chubby little boy he injured his hand. It wasn't serious, but tiny Mitch thought it was so Natalie lovingly wrapped his hand in cotton wraps to let him know she cared and that everything was going to be okay. These bandages were to his hand what his blankies were to his heart and soul.
I remember sitting on the floor in Mitchell’s room watching his dimpled fingers move carefully to make sure everything was okay. I marveled at the miracle of life – for there was a little boy I helped create. How could it be? Just a few years prior he didn’t exist and my heart was none the wiser. Yet there he was – this miracle of life and love. I marveled how this little child could come into my life and not divide my love, but multiply it. Not a day passes I don’t thank my God for my children … for trusting me with His children.
Mitch was so concerned about the pain he felt and whether he would even heal. As his father, I could tell he was young and didn't know what I did. To my sweet baby boy, his injury was the end of the world … for all he knew at that moment was pain. But, having a little more life experience than my son, I could see things he couldn't and I assured him the pain would pass and that he would look back and be better because of it.
Sure enough, a few hours passed and the throbbing pain that had him so concerned disappeared like a cloud on a summer day. All was sunny and well. Mitch, too, understood the importance of not putting his hand in things that could hurt him. He was, indeed, wiser because of that experience. Though it pained me to see my son in sorrow, I did my best to help him learn from that experience and assure him things would be okay.
Losing my son has introduced a pain that goes far beyond the reach of man and medicine. I wish there were mortal bandages to soothe the pains of death. Suddenly the tables have turned and I find myself in a great deal of pain, carefully moving here and there to make sure everything is going to be okay. Like Mitch was back then, I am the child this time, learning lessons from my Father. I hope I’m listening. I hope. And though I stumble and fall a million times, though I may disappoint Him because of things I should have done better or known better, I keep trying. I know He still loves me as I loved my son.
When I see this photo of Mitchell’s little hands my heart swells with great love and deep sorrow. I remember that I, too, am a child learning how to be a better person tomorrow.
I had no idea a few years from the time of this tender photo, years that would pass by in the blink of an eye, that I would hold these same, tender hands in the quiet of night and whisper into my son’s ear to not be afraid. That I would softly tell him how proud I was of the young man he had become … and that one day, when I grow up, I want to be like my son.
These tender hands, so innocent and pure, were put through hardship I wouldn’t understand for a few more years. Looking back now I know, my son was here to teach me how to learn and grow … to worry less about the body and more upon the soul.
I cannot help but think about what it means to hurt and to heal. It is a painful process and oh, so real. But like I tried to teach my son, and my Father is now teaching me, that the pain I feel shall one day pass and soon I shall see.
At the head of my son’s bed lay his favorite Halo mask and toy gun.
I purchased that mask when Mitch went to work with me, just before his last Halloween. He loved to have pretend battles with his friends; many of whom would call him “Sir” or “Master Chief” to show their willingness to follow his lead. While Mitch was physically weakest among them, he possessed a strength and influence that transcended muscle and bone. Mitch, unaware, was a quiet but natural leader.
Even to this day, almost two years since I lost him, he leads me in the battle field of life. Whether I wrestle with enemies of the mind and heart, or take refuge from a sudden onslaught of grief, Mitch has shown me what it means to fight the good fight and to endure suffering with a grateful, loving heart. Though I cannot always control the struggles of life, I can decide how to respond to those struggles. How I respond makes all the difference.
I draw strength and inspiration from my timid little boy who struggled to walk, breathe and eventually live. I'll never forget little Mitch laying in this very spot, saying in shallow breath, “I don't think I can survive.” That quiet utterance broke my heart then and it breaks it again today.
Little Mitch faced an implacable, fatal enemy; and though DMD took his life, he fought the good fight, and he won. Mitch reminded me the battles that matter most in life have less to do with the body and more to do with the soul.
He taught me how to look past my troubles and find gratitude with what I have. Mitch taught me whatever I have is enough … and when there isn't enough, to share anyway. Mitch taught me how to bear my burdens with a glad heart and cheerful countenance. He showed me a heavenly paradox … that to lift another’s burden strangely lifts my own. These lessons, and many others, have sunk deep into my bones.
My sweet boy fought the good fight, and though he died, he won. As I face different battles I hope to fight the good fight so that one day, on some distant field, I might see my son.
As Mitch began to drift away I would look at him with a deep sorrow in my heart. I desperately wanted to scoop him up in my arms and take him to some place safe. A place like the children’s books we often read to him – a place of hope and happiness, joy and dreams. My little boy once glowing bright with laughter and childhood had become a dim candle about to flicker out. The light in his countenance had been growing dimmer by the day and I was greatly pained therewith. When I took this photo I had the distinct impression we were no longer counting the days, but the hours.
I remember cuddling next to my son just after I took this photo. I held him gently but firmly and said, “I am so sorry this is happening, son. You are so brave. I think sometimes God sends us little ones like you to teach us grown-ups what it means to be truly grown up. And Mitch, when I grow up, I want to be just like you.” Mitch squeezed my hand and smiled softly. I kissed his cheek and held him close to my chest as he drifted away, soft as a feather, into an afternoon nap.
While Mitch slept, I wept.
I wept so hard the bed was shaking and I worried I would wake him. The grief I knew then was but a foretaste of the grief to come. For death was the easy part … the echoes of emptiness and longing were a more painful hell yet to come.
I learned long ago it isn't productive to raise my fist to the heavens and wonder why we suffer. Instead I learned to turn my ear heavenward; to listen for secrets to the soul and learn what I was meant to learn. Too often people get hung up on asking the wrong questions – and therefore get no answers. They ask “why would God do this?” When we hurt it can be tempting to shake our fists at the Universe and bemoan our circumstance as though we're being singled out or treated unfairly. But the last time I checked, life isn't fair and it rains on the just and unjust. Why should we be the only exception? The other day I learned over 150,000 people die each day. Countless others will suffer all manner of afflictions. In the few minutes it might take to shake our fist and complain about or own lives, hundreds of people will have passed from this life to the next and a great many more will mourn their absence. The world is filled with grief and suffering. Some sorrows we bring upon ourselves. Other suffering just happens, whether from an act of God or simply life in motion.
At least for me, I've come to discover suffering and sorrow are an important part of life’s learnings. Any more I worry less about the origins of my sorrows – for what difference would it make? Surely God isn’t caught off guard or surprised by the events in our lives. Whether He’s the author of some of our sorrows, as a divine teacher, or simply a patient tutor as we struggle with life in motion … He could change the course of our sorrows if He wanted to. That He often doesn't, sends a compelling message. The question I ask myself is, “Am I listening?”
So, as I laid next to my dying son, weeping in the deepest of grief, I felt a pain beyond description that left my soul weary, bruised and weak. I didn't want my little boy to go, for he was my tender son and I loved him so. Though I prayed mightily for his safe return, the answer I received was “No, my son, for there are things you must learn.”
Thus began my journey with grief, down a bewildering path in search of relief. And though I still hear the deafening sound of death’s terrible toll, I have come to understand our mortal bodies are but clothing to the soul.
I thought I had grown accustom to the emotional whiplash that is felt when someone you love is on hospice. One moment you think the nightmare has ended and the next you are reminded it is only just beginning. So, as I sat with my tender son who leaned into my arm, I wondered quietly if the doctors had it all wrong … that perhaps we dodged a bullet. Suddenly my son moved and I saw the cables coming from his arm … cables that reminded me it wasn't a dream, but that I was living my worst nightmare. I didn't realize how nightmarish grief would soon become.
Baby Marlie, ever the faithful comforter, sat patiently and lovingly on Mitchell’s lap. She was always quick to kiss his little fingers ever so softly, which Mitchell loved so. Though my heart sank, I realized I was in the presence of two tender beings who were meant to be together – even if only in passing. One sick little boy about to die and travel to that place beyond the hills, far from mortal view; and a newborn puppy who had just arrived on a mission of mercy and comfort, a little friend who would stay behind after Mitch left us to comfort our hearts weary with grief.
These two little ones were unaware they were passing each other in opposite directions, but for a moment they gave each other comfort, and I thank God for that.
Though I have seen many tender mercies along Mitchell’s Journey, evidence of God’s love and care … a wondrous life filled with little lifts here and there … I cannot deny the immensity of the struggle. As we saw death approaching I knew it would be hard but I scarcely understood how hard it would actually be.
I remember, while in the depths of sorrow, kneeling at my bed in tears praying to God to free us from the struggle. I prayed mightily unto my Father and my words stretched far into the heavens begging for my son to be spared, and if not, that my son’s passing would be quick, if he were to suffer. I even begged God that I could take my son’s place – for I would gladly lay down my life so my little boy could live. Though the specifics of my prayers were not answered in the way I asked for them to be answered, I know my Father heard the intent of my heart and I know He felt after me and had compassion. I have come to understand His answers to my desperate pleas were wiser than anything my mortal mind could conjure up. Sometimes we must be reminded that He is God and we are not – and we must put our trust in that.
Ironically, my son’s death, as impossibly painful as it has been, has breathed new life into my soul. I have a sobriety about … everything; and losing Mitch has given me a deeper perspective on the purpose of life that I didn't have in my earlier years. Oh, I had book knowledge, but now I have experiential knowledge … and there’s a difference. Though I wish so badly to trade those lessons back for my son … I cannot have Mitch back – not in the way I want him. I pray that I don’t waste the life lessons my son has taught me at so high a price. For all that happens in this mortal place has a divine purpose in the grand scheme of heavenscape.
As I contemplate the struggle of grief and sorrow, of death and sickness and everything that hurts, I am reminded of the circumstances of a baby chick about to hatch: they must break through their shell on their own. Any attempt to chip away the shell for them, in an attempt to make their life easier, is not only counterproductive but often fatal. The very act of their struggle strengthens them so they can survive on the outside. In fact, the time it takes to break free is also vital for their bodies to adjust to their new life. Any effort on our part to hasten the hardship will rob them of their struggle, the struggle designed to make them stronger, and they often die.
Like those baby chicks who struggle to break through, I know at some point I will come out on the other side of this stronger. While I might be tempted to pray to God for an easy way out … that He might chip away the shell of hardship and sorrow and hasten the struggle, I know better. Instead I pray that He gives me strength equal to the task - for I know it is in the struggle we are made stronger. But what a struggle it is.
I am a weary traveler on a broken road. I don’t feel strong - in fact, I'm weaker than weak. I often collapse in sorrow and grief, and when I’m alone, I quietly weep. But like those baby chicks that are destined for a life on the other side of struggle, I will fight on. God willing, I will fight on.