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.
About a year ago I was on a flight to some place. I remember looking out the window and taking this photo of the arid landscape I called home. I then looked forward into the cabin of the plane and I saw over a hundred people sitting in their chairs flipping through magazines, scrambling with digital devices, working through puzzles, watching movies and engaging in various conversations.
There was no way to know what personal challenges each passenger was dealing with, but my guess was many of them worried and struggled because they’re human, but few of them were in crisis. Many of them seemed anxious to get to their destination so they could move on with their life. I then looked out the window again and wondered how my life could continue. I missed my son and the weight of grief loomed heavy on my soul. It felt like the weight of a million planets tugging with sorrows pull.
The once familiar desert 30,000 feet below felt foreign. The passengers all around me felt like strangers from a distant land. The world around me seemed so provincial. The mad dash for wealth, material things and the endless distractions that turns life into a numbing dream … all of it rang hollow. The meaning of life was suddenly monumental. I didn't care about anything but my wife and family and my heart ached deeply for my fallen son.
Yesterday I spoke with a man who runs the world’s largest grief organization. He asked me to be one of their keynote speakers at their next conference a few months from now. As we spoke he asked me how I was holding up and I responded that the answer to that question depends on the day, and sometimes the moment. He, being no stranger to grief, said he understood exactly what I was saying.
Today I find myself between two worlds: Earth, the world I once knew before losing my son … where the gravity of everyday life was tolerable and familiar; and the world after, where I found myself walking on Jupiter, struggling to live and breathe under the crushing gravity of grief. I live somewhere between those two places. Neither are home and I don’t sense they ever again will be, but I frequent them often.
At least for me, grief has evolved … more accurately, I have evolved. My grief hasn't changed ... it is still very difficult. The pain of my son’s death is just as soul crushing today as it was the day I lost him. It isn't difficult because I think about it, you see – it is difficult because it happened and he is no longer with me. In many ways, I miss him even more today than I did a year ago. However, my ability to carry grief has changed. I don’t know how or why, all I know is my grief journey is entering a new phase.
In 2015 I will be writing more stories of Mitch and his journey, for I have many, many to share. I will also be writing about the evolution of grief and our family’s journey through the shadows of death and how we are learning to find a new normal.
I am no longer afraid of going to sleep or waking into feelings of terror – though I regularly experience moments of terror. I no longer cry every day – though I still have frequent, intense moments of weeping. And though at times my eyes may seem dry, rest assured that my soul still cries.
For as long as I love my son, grief will be my constant companion - so I am learning to co-exist.
While he was living, I don’t think little Mitch knew how much his life meant to me. I've discovered it isn't possible for our children to know how much they are loved. It seems one has to become a parent to truly understand the depths of that kind of heavenly love.
As I find myself between two worlds, I am learning to take up residence here. I can see things today that I have never before seen … for grief has changed my sense of being. Strangely, though I ache for my son, I find this new place, though painful at times, a heavenly one. Now, if only I could hold my son …
I had a moment of truth in my life many years ago. I was lost in a different kind of wilderness – not a wilderness of grief and sorrow but a dark wilderness just the same. The path before my feet was shrouded in a deep fog and for a while I didn't know if God even lived. I understand what atheists think and feel and I have explored their arguments and logic, none of it is lost on me. And, for a season, I suppose I was counted among them. But then I made a choice to truly open my heart, mind, and soul to the possibilities and something remarkable happened.
So while I was wandering in the wilderness of doubt and darkness I remember searching for peace and understanding and for light. After months of study, soul-searching and preparation I remember kneeling at the side of my bed as a young college student and asking my Father if He was there if He even existed in the first place. That very moment I was overcome with an impression I cannot describe. It was at once distinctly spiritual and at the same time deeply emotional. I knew the difference between the two. One thing’s for sure, it was undeniable and not of me. There I knelt as a young, broken and once-confused 18-year-old and I was given eyes to see and a mind to comprehend. I wept. And I wept. I came to know with a certain knowledge that day we have a Father who lives and loves us … and all that happens in this mortal place is for a greater purpose. That experience and a few others that followed prepared me for darker woods yet to come. Darker, in fact, than I had a mind to imagine. Only the next time I journeyed in the wilderness I had a candle that I might see.
Fast forward more than two decades and I found myself on the edge of my son’s bed as he folded his tender arms and said a prayer of his own to his Father … our Father. He had a week to live and despite the heavy burdens he shouldered, this little boy carried a heart overflowing with love and gratitude. I remember watching little Mitch humbly fold his arms and close his eyes as he spoke with his Father in a spirit of deep thanks. He asked for nothing. Once again Mitch reminded me of one of my favorite sayings, “Gratitude turns what we have into enough.” For Mitch, he always had enough.
I realize that I speak of my personal faith in God often. It is never my intent to sound preachy, fanatical or pretentious; I am only sharing my experience and feelings as they truly are. Why I do this publically, I still do not know. One of the reasons I write of God is I think it’s difficult, if not impossible, for anyone to peer into the deep abyss of death and not contemplate what’s on the other side if anything at all. In my estimation, the reality of God is either child’s play or it is the only play that really matters.
So, as I knelt at my son’s bed, hearing his soft voice and even softer sentiments, I wondered in my mind and heart how my little boy so broken could be so put together. This little 10-year-old was a towering example to me that I can smile even when all seems lost. He showed me that though broken, I needn't fall apart. Suddenly I remembered that experience kneeling at my other bed so many years before and I felt an echo of those same heavenly impressions again.
In what seemed the blink of an eye from this little moment, I found myself broken-hearted and struggling to breathe at my son’s funeral. While preparing for the funeral I asked a dear friend of mine, Kenneth Cope, a talented musician and man of faith to sing one of his songs at Mitchie’s funeral. He was so kind and gracious and performed, “Broken.” Here are the first 3 verses:
Broken clouds give rain
Broken soil grows grain
Broken bread feeds man for one more day
Broken storms yield light
The break of day heals night
Broken pride turns blindness into sight
Broken souls that need His mending
Broken hearts for offering
Could it be that God loves broken things
I loved that song when I first heard it. I loved it even more when my friend sang this song at my dear son’s funeral. As I listened to his inspired words through song, I couldn't help but think about why we break and what comes of it. Although my son’s broken heart touched mine –in truth, Mitchell’s broken heart broke mine.
I am grateful my friend Kenneth gently reminded me broken things can give way to better things. I am grateful Mitch taught me though we may break, we needn't break apart. And I am thankful for my Father who has shown me time and again, broken things can indeed mend ... and often, to a much greater end.
Little Mitch was so cute this night. He always loved to take baths … I think in part because he was able to float in the water and that helped him feel a little relief from the relentless tug of gravity. As his muscles grew weaker from DMD, any rest was a good rest.
I always loved sitting with him, playing with toys on the edge of the tub. Whenever I spent time with Mitch or my other boys, the little boy in me would emerge and we would get lost in imagination. I could care less about a football game or stretching my legs to the news … my world was (and remains) my family. In an instant the bath was no longer a tub, but an ocean with an ever changing landscape of bubbly mountains. The faucet became a mammoth waterfall and the various bottles of shampoo, towers to a soapy fortress. Our adventures were epic and endless.
I'll never forget the sound of my son’s voice pointing to the tender spot around his PICC line saying, “Dad, I wish I didn't have to have this.” He paused a moment, catching his short breath and said, “Well … at least I’m alive.” I smiled softly as my eyes gushed with tears and then ran down my face. I kissed his forehead and quickly excused myself, then slid my back down the hall and wept like a child.
Little Mitch was just glad to be alive yet I found myself wanting for death because losing him hurt so much. I pleaded that night to my Father; I cried out like a child and wet my pillows with my tears. That night, and endless nights since, I visited the darkest parts of the human soul.
Those words will haunt me the remainder of my days: “Well, at least I'm alive.” Mitchell’s words were a declaration of gratitude for what little he had, not a complaint about what he didn’t have. If ever I’m tempted to complain or get discouraged, I will remember those fateful words of my son … “At least I'm alive.”
Some might ask why I continue to post stories such as this … stories wrought with profound sorrow and loss. It begs the larger question as to whether revisiting painful moments like this agitates a wound that may otherwise heal if left untouched. But, what does it mean to not touch the wound?
The truth about grief, especially the loss of a child, is you can never not touch the wound. That is a fiction, in Shakespeare’s words, “told by an idiot.” Not a day passes I don't think of little Mitch. Were you to ask any parent who lost a child, no matter how many years have passed, you will most likely hear them say what I just said; that not a day passes they don’t think about their lost child. Not a single day.
Every day, those who grieve the loss of a child touch the wound. It is normal. It is unavoidable. It is part of healing.
I think the key to processing grief isn't about not touching the wound … pretending it doesn't exist. That’s impossible. Rather, it is how we touch and dress the wound that matters. I can say with confidence, every day I'm healing on the inside. Yes, my heart is still broken and tears flow regularly – but I'm not as broken as I was a year ago and I'm grateful for that. Make no mistake, I'm still broken … broken in ways that are deep and rending and will take a great deal of time to mend. But I'm mending … and guess that’s the point of healing. Progress, however fast or slow, is progress.
At least for me, part of my own grief journey is journaling. I don't write to fixate on sorrow. Instead, I write to process these moments in my own mind and heart and determine what meaning they have for me. With each painful moment I address the pain of my wound, then I dress my wound with meaning and context. That, with Heaven’s help, is how I choose to heal.
Though the pain of losing a child is so great at times I may wish for death, I seem to always come back to the thing my son figured out at the age of ten, “At least I'm alive.”
I am alive … and I intend to make the most of it.