We decided to take our kids up Big Cottonwood Canyon (near Park City, Utah) before the snow came.
The leaves had fallen and covered the ground like crunchy wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Nature’s blush was fading fast and all the world was about to fall into a wintry slumber. Because the ground hadn’t frozen yet, you could smell the dirt, pine and leaves like a sweet potpourri made by the loving hands of Mother Nature.
Mitch loved smells and breathed in deeply with his nose and said, “Dad, doesn't it smell good outside?” I smiled softly at him and said, “Yes, son, isn't earth awesome?” He smiled back at me then a little while later took another big whiff of Mother Nature’s perfume. I couldn't help but notice how Mitch kept stopping to smell the air again and again. It was almost as though, without knowing it, deep down he knew this was his last chance to drink the season in.
This was his last outdoor adventure before it snowed.
We were high in the mountains, parked next to a natural marshland. Wooden walkways carved a path through some of the marsh, then to a dirt trail that circled a small lake. Mitch loved going here because he could see ducks, fish and all manner of wildlife. At one point Ethan and Mitch raced ahead to explore like young boys love to do. I took this photo of them peering over the edge of the walkway at some fish swimming near the surface in hopes of something to eat before the water froze.
Because DMD had weakened his muscles, Mitch couldn't walk long distances and used a scooter to get around. Ethan was always careful to make sure he never left Mitch behind. That simple gesture to wait for those who struggle to keep up; that is a measure of love and charity in my book. When I saw this quiet, unrehearsed act of love I wondered how often I had left others behind: others that could have used loving encouragement, a helping hand or a shoulder to lean on. There before me were two young boys unaware of the lesson they just taught me. They were just simply being young. They were just being good.
Mitch seemed to always care for others, too, and was mindful of those left behind. One Sunday, as the kids were getting ready for church Natalie noticed an extra set of scriptures in Mitchell’s bag. When asked about it Mitch said, “Oh, mom, those are for Luke because he sometimes forgets to bring his own.” Little Mitch didn't want his friend to be left behind or feel left out; he was naturally his brother’s keeper. When Natalie first told me that story I wept tears of love and gratitude. Not all tears are sad … some come from another place that make your heart feel glad.
I learned something this day I will not soon forget …
A measure of love is looking back to see who you can help. It is the deepest form of charity because it requires you to forget yourself. The funny thing about what it means to love and lift another, you never lose ground when you reach down to help a sister or a brother. In a world saturated with fear and hate we ought not throw sharp stones, but rather find those who are heavy hearted and seek to mend their bones. A strange thing indeed, the paradox of love … you cannot give it freely and not feel closer to heaven above. Looking back and helping others, that is a measure of love.
Mitch has gone far beyond … where mortal eyes can’t see. Though I stumble forward, trembling with grief and feeble knees, I sense somehow that he is helping me. Perhaps one day, when all is said and done, we'll see there was an unseen army helping us, when we felt like only one.
After all, isn't that how things in heaven are done? Its not so much about the 99, but rather looking back to find the one.
A beautiful measure of love, if I ever heard one.
This was the summer we took our kids park hopping. I am sure many others do this, but it was a special family tradition we liked to call our own. Each Monday evening we’d pack a picnic and drive to some random, undiscovered park and explore the jungle gyms and grassy fields and have dinner there. Because each park was unique it never got old.
Mitch had the most endearing, mischievous side to him. Though I am terrified of spiders, I find myself catching and keeping them to study and observe. Mitch, knowing my fear of spiders, would often put large plastic spiders in strange places around the house. He would never put them in obvious places, like in the middle of a room for all to see. Instead, he put them in the shadows, barely out of view … or in corners and other places you would most likely see them. I fell for every one of my son’s little traps. When I would stumble into one I would always scream out in terror – only to hear Mitch down the hall or in another room giggling that I fell for another one of his shenanigans.
On this evening we were visiting some undiscovered park. Little Mitch saw that Ethan was about to drink from a fountain. Knowing the water pressure was unusually high he quickly approached Ethan from behind and turned the water on full blast, squirting his brother in the face. Mitch ran away laughing. Ethan was a good sport and laughed with him. They were the best of friends.
My memories with my family are as warm to my soul today as the evening sun was on my face back then.
I've never felt it a burden to spend time with my family. To the contrary, I have always considered time with them an investment that would pay a lifetime of dividends. When I look at images like this, and remember those good times, I cash one of those emotional checks and my heart is filled to overflowing with gratitude.
Perfect moments, you know … the kind you wish you could bottle up and save forever, they come and go so quickly. I wish they’d stay forever – but I know that’s unreasonable. I guess that’s why I’m always on the hunt for them. I suppose, after all, that is how it should be … because what is rare is valuable. To think that our children are more than rare … they are unique in all the universe … which makes them valuable beyond mortal description.
Just last night I took Laura-Ashley on a daddy-daughter date. We went to dinner and a movie and had a great time talking. As we drove home we passed the cemetery and she said when she takes the bus home from school she’s always sure to sit on the side of the bus where she can see Mitch. I smiled and said, “Mitch sure loved you, Ash.”
We both talked about her little brother for a while; we laughed at the funny things he did and said and recalled our favorite adventures together as a family. I wasn't sad (well, deep inside I’ll always be sad that he is gone) … but my heart was so happy and it was overflowing with love and appreciation for my family. I was grateful that I had Mitch – even if only for 10 years. At the same time I was grateful I had Laura-Ashley – and that she is turning into a wonderful young woman with whom I am so proud. I told my daughter how much I loved her and how proud I was of her. I hope she felt the meaning behind my words – for words, too, are mortal and flawed.
I am grateful for perfect moments back then and today. I do all that I can to scoop them up and treasure them before they evaporate. And while my cup is cracked and tattered with grief and weakness, it still runneth over … far beyond what I deserve. And I am grateful.
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.
It was the last day of November and we were about to head home, for our time at the family ranch had drawn to an end. Little Mitch asked if he could drive a 4-wheeler one more time. I had no idea it would be his last time. Because Mitch didn't have the muscle strength to run or ride a bike like other young boys, he anxiously sought after other ways to feel the rush of wind through his hair and on his face. Riding 4-wheelers helped him do just that … and Mitch felt powerful and strong, even normal, if only for a moment. Had I known this was his last opportunity to do what he loved so much, I would have foregone meals and work and sleep for days-on-end in order to help him drink in as much life as humanly possible. We simply didn't know what little time was left, we just did the best we knew and hoped we passed the test.
As we prepared for what would be Mitchell’s last 4-wheeling adventure, this sweet little boy sat quietly in his grandmother’s garage and put his shoes on. The chair upon which he sat had deep cushions and nearly swallowed him up. Without complaining, Mitch silently struggled to get up from the couch but he couldn't – his muscles were much too weak and the cushions comfortably deep. Ethan noticed his brother quietly struggling and in need of help and quickly ran to his aid.
This was a simple exchange that was over in the blink of an eye. Had I been outside, impatiently yelling for them to hurry up, I would have missed this silent sermon of love and service between two children. What’s more, had I been outside honking my horn anxious to complete the task of spending time, I would have missed the point of everything … for riding 4-wheelers wasn't the point, even though little Mitch loved it so, it was doing things together with love. That’s all that matters in the end. It is something of a heavenly paradox that while we raise our young children, they are also raising us; for I am a very different person from the young gallivant I once was so many years ago.
As I watched this spontaneous act of brotherly love, it occurred to me in the most profound way Mitchell’s journey was also the journey of our family. Though Mitch walked alone with DMD, because nobody could do it for him, we walked beside him and cheered him on and did our best to clear the path for him. Our lives were inseparably connected, our journey’s intertwined, yet how much pain and sorrow we would come to know had never crossed our minds.
While Mitch had some best friends in his life, there was none so great as his older brother. These two boys were a match forged in heaven and Mitch loved him deeply. If ever I am tempted to complain about what has gone wrong in my life, I need only look at what has gone right. Ethan was a tender mercy for my son and when I think upon that gift alone, something gone right, I cannot help but weep for gratitude. For I am reminded that I have a Father who cares enough to give little comforts no matter how big our troubles seem.
Since Mitchell’s passing I have noticed whenever Ethan sees a photo or video of Mitch I see a softness fill his countenance that is distinct and visible. There is a tenderness and admiration in his eyes I don’t normally see in anyone, for any reason. Ethan loves his little brother just as much as Mitch loves him – and that makes my heart sing. As cool a young man Ethan is becoming, I pray he never loses his softness; for softness is the fertile soil upon which relationships grow deep. I also hope he never confuses softness for weakness – they are not the same. Not at all. I think Mitch was just as much a gift to Ethan as Ethan was to him.
Mitchell’s Journey has taught me to take great comfort in the little comforts, for they all add up. When I look at this simple image of two young boys meant to be together, who learned how to lift each other in different ways, I begin to see the bigger picture. I sense we are not left comfortless, neither are we alone. Faintly, as quiet as a whisper can possibly be, I hear something and it is heavenly.