Not long after our son passed away a compassionate follower of Mitchell’s Journey asked me for a sample of Mitchell’s handwriting. She had been following our story and felt compelled to give my dear wife something to comfort her weary heart. This is what she made - exactly as Mitch wrote it on paper just a few months prior. This kind woman, now friend, carefully mailed it to me so we could surprise Natalie for Mother’s Day. I offered to pay her for her kindness but she insisted on giving it to my wife as a gift from her heart.
When Natalie looked upon this for the first time her eyes filled with tears because she recognized Mitchie’s handwriting.
This little memento is an echo of Mitchell’s love for his mother. I’m forever grateful for this kind woman, this Good Samaritan, who felt after my grief-stricken wife on the edge of a broken road. Katelynne didn't need to do or say anything, but she did anyway … and her little act of love did a lot.
This is her Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/SugarplumsJewelry
When Natalie wears this necklace, she often looks at it as if to look upon her son, or at least a breadcrumb he left behind … evidence this little boy lived and loved his mommy.
I’m grateful for this Good Samaritan who took the time to stop; who reached out with a little love and helped my wife a lot.
This photo was taken a few months after Mitch passed away, during the early summer of 2013. My kids were at Cousins Camp – a kind of family reunion for young cousins and their mothers. My oldest sister, Diane Wunderli, who was a faithful supporter to my family and little Mitch as he slipped into oblivion had purchased some floating lanterns and wanted to set them off in memory of my little boy.
She was one of the precious few who almost had a front-row seat to the horrors of losing our son. There were times she saw my little boy toward the end struggling and she would step away in tears. At one point she read a post about Natalie and I sitting on the hard floor in the hallway just outside Mitchell’s room so we could weep and not frighten him. When she read that post she gave us cushions to sit on and Kleenex to dry our tears. This woman was then, and is today, a living example of what it means to comfort those who stand in need of comfort. It is one thing to talk about doctrines, it is quite another to experience them. Having been on the receiving end of that profound doctrine has been humbling. Her comforting us when we were very much in need of comfort continues to pay emotional dividends to us today – and for that I am grateful.
I wish letting go of grief was as easy as releasing a floating lantern into the sky. I wish that a single memorial might assuage my sorrow and allow me to let go of all that hurts. But life is not that easy.
I have spent a great deal of time thinking about grief rituals and why we do what we do when we lose the people we love. I don’t know the answers – but I am beginning to understand that each grief ritual is as unique to our souls as our fingerprint or DNA is to our mortal bodies. What’s more, how we manage our grief is a very personal journey – and, so long as we don’t hurt ourselves or others, there seems to be no wrong or right way to grieve. Unfortunately some people who sit comfortably on the sidelines of grief, thinking they know best, confuse the hurt someone feels for hurting themselves. They try alter their grief path by saying, “You’re stuck.” Or “You shouldn’t feel that way.” Or, “it’s time to move on” and all manner of idiocracies.
I have discovered it is far better to listen with love and tell those who hurt you care. We can no more force the healing a broken heart any more than we can force a deep cut to heal. But we can create an environment where healing can take place … we can clean and dress our wounds carefully and keep them free of harmful things that might infect us or prevent healing. But at the end of the day emotional healing happens from the inside out.
There are so many ways I've seen others grieve … I know a woman, for example, who lost her husband and has made a lovely treasure chest which will slowly become home to treasured items that belonged to him. When the chest is full, the rest of his belongings will likely go. Others choose to keep everything. Some push everything away and want nothing to remind them of their heartbreak. I see people regularly visit the cemetery and spend time near their loved ones. Some write songs while others decide to take up arms in a battle to beat the thing that took their loved one away. Pat Furlong, for example, lost two of her sons to DMD. She lost two Mitchell’s. I cannot imagine her sorrow. Yet in her own grief journey she managed to turn rubble and ashes into beauty and hope; she started Parent Project Muscular Dystrophy, which is now a beacon of light and hope for families who face the same disease that took my little boy, and hers. Still, there are others grieving who are simply treading water trying not drown in the deep and dark well of sorrow … people whose hearts are so broken getting out of bed each day is a monumental victory. There are so many ways to grieve – and each grief journey is unique. And that’s okay.
In ways I have never imagined, I am beginning to see beauty in grief. Not that grief is a pleasant thing – to the contrary, grief is a bitter cup from hell. But grief is also an evidence of love – and that alone is paradoxically beautiful. Each tear is a memorial of profound love and longing. Each heavy chest and sunken heart is a camouflaged prayer to heaven that our loved ones will know how much they are missed.
Grief is not only about the pain of loss … it is also a very real wrestle of the soul with a seemingly endless inquiry of “what ifs” and “Did I do enough?” Though my heart is still heavy over the loss of my son I have come to terms with a certain truth: despite feelings of self-doubt and anguish over what might have been, the best we can do is quite alright, in the end.
I’m still contemplating grief rituals - what they mean and why we do them. All I know is they play an important role in healing. I wish I could release my grief like my sister did of this lantern. My own grief journey has taught me that grief is not something I can simply let go, for it is part of my soul now in ways only God can know.
In my garage hang 5 shovels that were used, as a matter of ceremony, to bury my dear son. Every day I come home I see them. I can’t NOT see them. These shovels are now symbols of what matters most and the price my family paid to be reminded of such. When I see them, suddenly material things are worthless to me; the pursuit of fame and attention, ring hollow and lame; and all the tinsel and chatter of the world lose their luster and powers of persuasion.
I just see 5 sacred symbols, still bearing dirt from the burial site, and am reminded of one missing boy I would do anything to see and hold again.
I don’t keep these symbols visible to agitate already tender wounds nor do I use them to fixate on the pain of loss; the kitchen table with an empty chair does that well enough. Instead, these shovels keep me focused and clear-minded. They remind me of the realities of life and also point to my most treasured relationships. Each day I leave my garage remembering Mitch and I make a promise to do better than the day before – to make whatever time I have on this earth matter. When I return home I am reminded to talk a little softer, to listen more intently, and to love more visibly … for everything, and I mean everything ... is temporary.
I made this video just after Mitch passed away vimeo.com/61500841 wherein these shovels were shown.
These symbols keep me sober and sane. They remind me to never dig a pit for my neighbor or intentionally cause harm to others, but rather to take compassion and help dig others out of trouble and help where I can. They remind me that I, too, will one day be laid to rest and I will be held accountable for my choices … for the help or harm I caused others.
I hope to never hurt another but always help ... and if I'm lucky, to build a soul with heaven's help.
I took this photo a few weeks ago. It was one of the colder nights of the year and all I could think about was how I wanted to take my son home with me where it was warm. Sometimes thoughts like that barge into my mind and heart unannounced and uninvited and I cannot help but experience the fatherly instinct to protect and care for my son. I know better, but that doesn’t stop those thoughts and feelings from happening.
On my drive home I had a few ideas about what I might say but as I sat down to write them my mind emptied while my eyes filled with tears. All that crossed my mind was how grateful I was for the gift that lay at the bottom of these two Christmas trees.
Although part of my heart died with my son … leaving in my heart an emptiness because he is gone … part of my son’s heart is with me and that is what I shall carry the remainder of my days. It doesn’t fill the emptiness but I have a feeling that in time it might.
I don’t know what emotions tomorrow holds, but today I feel a certain peace in my heart – and for that I shed tears of gratitude.