Posts tagged Spirit World
WHAT’S ON THE OTHER SIDE

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.”

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INTO OBLIVION

It was so hard to see our son slip into oblivion. I’ll always remember how lovingly Natalie held Mitch as he struggled to breathe and keep balance. Mitch was taking medicine to erase from his mind oxygen hunger – without it he would be panicked, breathless, and gasping for air. It was a medicine of mercy. As Mitch descended further into the abyss he began taking other medications to erase from his mind the pain of organ failure and the panic of dying.

We were not prepared for such things; we knew how to make macaroni and cheese, play UNO and swim in ponds. We knew how to laugh and play, do homework and tell stories at bedtime. We didn't know how to manage the symptoms of death – let alone watch our little boy die.

My dear wife demonstrated a bravery and steadiness that humbles me to my core. She was soft and tender to Mitch and never did anything to scare him – even though in her heart she was terrified beyond measure. Occasionally I would find her in our closet weeping next to a pile of tissues – but around Mitch, she was steady and sure. 

Although my sweet wife and I did our best to prepare for the holocaust of losing our son, I discovered it wasn't possible to intellectually or emotionally prepare for such a loss. Yes, I knew it was coming and I wept in sorrow anticipating the loss of my son – but, with all the sorrow I knew at the time, I at least had the hope of another moment. There was always hope of another something – and that kept the true weight of grief at bay. It wasn't until Mitch was gone that the true weight of grief broke every part of me. All the sorrow I knew before, anticipating his death, was but a foretaste of a much deeper pain to come. That was when my heart was hurled into oblivion.

I have learned the true hell of losing a child happens in the aftermath, long after flowers and casseroles – that is when it’s hardest. And it is hard for a long, long time. It isn't hard for want of sympathy, it is hard because he is gone. Really gone. Days seem to stretch eternal and night, with its promise of sleep, is a welcomed escape from oblivion and the heaviness of grief. 

For the next year and a half I found myself slipping in and out of oblivion. The first 12 months were absolute oblivion – there were more moments of tears than no tears. Thankfully that is not the case today. I still cry every day, but I no longer cry all day. 

I find myself slipping into oblivion at the most unexpected times. Although oblivion is no longer home to my broken heart, it is a second home and my heart will take residence there without any warning at all.

In fact, just yesterday I was in a business meeting discussing many important topics related to our future as a business. At one point, without warning or provocation, I was taken over by a profound sense of loss. “He’s gone. Mitch is actually gone.” I found myself quietly gasping for air thinking to myself, “I can't believe he’s gone.” It was a wrestle of the soul. I tried to push those feelings aside so I wouldn't erupt in tears in the middle of our meeting in front of the other men. By the time I reached my office and shut my door, the floodgates opened. I wept as though I just lost him.

I don't know how to grieve any more than I know how to watch my child die. I just know how to make macaroni and cheese and play with my kids. I know how to cuddle by the campfire and dream up bedtime stories. I don't know how to live without Mitch – but I don't have a choice in the matter. Each day I take a step forward – and each day is a little better than the day before. 

I miss my son – every moment of every day I miss him. I wish I didn't have to go through this. And though I find my heart in oblivion at the most unexpected moments, I'm somehow able to find my way back to that path of healing, that path of peace, and thankfully I haven't lost any ground.

Somewhere on the other side of all this hell, is heaven. I seek after that.

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FRESH COURAGE

A few years ago our extended family had a reunion in Mexico. Our generous step-father and grandfather sponsored the trip as a means to spend time together and create memories.

On this occasion, we were at the Cenote in Chichén Itzá, Mexico. Imagine a giant underground pool of water several hundred feet beneath the surface and surrounded in the hardest stone. Were you to look upward you would see the sky, jungle trees and vines draping downward to the water. The water below was exceedingly deep and dark, but it was fresh water and a nice break from the intense heat. 

We helped Mitch descend a stair path until we reached a stone platform about 10 feet from the waterline. Natalie, wanting Mitch to have a life full of experience asked if he wanted to jump into the water, she said, “I’ll go with you.” Mitch gladly accepted the invitation. Mitch was afraid of nothing, save dying. I think he only feared death, not because of what would happen over there, but because he didn't want to miss out on everything happening here. Mitch loved life. He often commented how glad he was to be alive. And to think how oft I have lived and never really been alive. Because of my sweet son, I am changed.

I'll never forget the look on Mitchie’s face after he came out of the water. He had the biggest smile because he conquered another one of life’s challenges. Fellow swimmers helped Mitch and Natalie climb the rope ladder so he could jump in once more. Mitch loved this experience. He was so happy to have dove into the water with his mom and he talked about it for a long time.

I love this image because it is symbolic of how my wife and son lived. Mitch loved life and was always up for an adventure. My dear wife postponed any convenience, if necessary, to teach our children discipline, a sound work ethic and to enjoy everything life has to offer. This image exactly depicts my noble, loving wife seeking ways to help our disabled son drink life in; always by his side, always holding his hand.

The night Mitch passed away I remember my wife holding his hand in a similar manner – it was firm and loving, tender and assuring. Only that time she couldn't jump with Mitch. She stood beside our little boy on the edge of a different dark water … a place wherein one cannot see, at least with mortal eyes. Natalie loved our little boy and let him know he would be okay – for soon he would jump to that other place. 

It wasn't but a few days earlier Natalie wept at the side of his bed, thinking Mitch was asleep when he awoke and said, “It’s okay Mommy.” I will forever be in awe of the strength and nobility of this little boy … who set aside his own fears to comfort his mother. I am quite certain that was a jump he did not want to make – but he loved his mommy enough to help her feel better. 

Mitch lives. He doesn't live because I write of him and that his memory is in the hearts and minds of people. He is not an idea or a memory. He lives as an actual being, a person of consciousness: a child of God who lives on – as will all of us after we leave this mortal state. I know this. I only wish such knowledge took the pain of separation and loss away – but it doesn't. It gives context to loss and sorrow, but it doesn't give us immunity from pain. I miss my 10-year-old son. I want him back and I cannot have him and my heart is greatly pained therewith. 

Yet, to look upon this image gives me fresh courage to live a full life and drink the moments in the best I can. I want to live a life like Mitch lived – fearlessly facing life’s adventures and doing it with those I love. If my little son could face all manner of unknowns with such bravery, so can I. And then there’s my sweet wife … a woman I will always love and honor because of the way she lives and loves. 

I am grateful for these two beautiful examples in my life: my wife for endlessly severing and loving and my son for his bravery and selflessness – which selflessness at the end of his life was a bravery of a much nobler sort.

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NO OTHER WAY

During his final days there were times I couldn't tell whether I was talking to my 10 year old son or a soul that was older than the universe itself. I saw it with my own eyes and felt it in the depths of my soul; something significant was happening. Although my young son was dying, his true identity was emerging and I sensed he was much older than I knew. I realized death wasn't the end ... but it was a painful goodbye, even if for now. Reunion may as well be forever away. For my heart aches and yearns to have him back with me – the way he used to be. That is grief.

As death inched closer the veil between this place and over there became increasingly thin. Those who came to visit said they felt a strong presence in our home. Natalie and I didn't always feel what they felt – we were probably too close to recognize it. Perhaps, also, we were in too much pain. Yet, in our closeness to this sorrow, we saw things others couldn't. Some things I will never share, for they are too sacred. Sometimes I wonder what it would look like were we allowed to see all that is truly happening. Perhaps we might be startled to see all the hands unseen that carry us in ways we do not now appreciate or feel.

There was a point when Mitch asked me, “Dad, is there any other way?” I held my son quietly and I wept. Countless were the nights I begged God for a way out. I pleaded for mercy. I begged for my son. As his father I would have traded places with him without a moment’s thought. I asked God, “Is there any other way?” As I tried to listen to my Father, I was reminded of another One who asked for a bitter cup to pass. Not even He was spared.

There is a saying that reads, “Most people wish to serve God – but only in an advisory capacity.” How oft have I been tempted to think my finite mind knows better than my infinite Father’s? So many times my heart cried out, “Please, not this. Anything but this.” I begged God for another way as though I might devise a better plan. Yet I know I cannot see what He sees … and I am reminded we are not mortal beings having a spiritual experience, but “spiritual beings having a mortal experience.” (Pierre Teilhard de Chardin) 

I don’t know much. But what I do know is this mortal life is a place to learn and grow under the tutelage of a Divine Teacher; a place where we learn how to see in the dark and hear the voice of God in our own wilderness. I can see that now. I understand there is no other way.

Yet, here I am talking of pain and suffering as a divine tutor … and I find myself on my knees, drenched in tears, begging for relief, scarcely able to bear the weight of this sorrow. Then a whisper, “There is no other way. Be patient, my son, for you will see more tomorrow.”

There is no other way.

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