We had just finished speaking at our son’s funeral and my little boy’s body was rolled to the vehicle that would lead us on the longest, slowest, most painful drive of our lives.
It had only been an hour since I saw my son and the funeral director closed the casket, never to be reopened again. I longed so deeply to rescue my tired son from the cold.
There were so many layers to grief this day. Grief weighed heavy because I lost my son, who was in so many ways my best little friend. My grief was compounded because my wife, who has the most gentle and tenderhearted soul I have ever known, ached in ways I cannot comprehend. I grieved for her … for a mother’s love is unique … a mother’s love is deeper than deep. However much I was pained by the death of our son, I know this good mother ached infinitely more. I also grieved for my fallen son, who wanted so much to live but whose life was cut short. I grieved for my other children who, confused and full of sorrow, lost a dear brother they adored.
As I looked at my wife, she seemed to stare into the horizon as if to wonder how life could possibly continue. In my heart, I felt that way, too. Ethan stood stoic, peering into the back of the hearse at his younger brother, his best friend, trying to make sense of loss.
If ever I was tempted to feel like an utter failure, this day only amplified that. The days and months ahead would grow dark with grief. The pitch of night would, by comparison, seem light.
All the provincial things I thought weighed heavy on my shoulders suddenly seemed light as a feather. Crushed by the gravity of grief, I found myself stumbling over pebbles and gasping for breath. There were days that would follow I even wished for death.
Grief? Grief is just a flimsy word to describe the unimaginable. The indescribable. Grief is a pebble of a word, a grain of sand, even … hewn from the mighty Everest of sorrow. It points to a pain that simply defies words.
Ever since we lost little Mitch I have spent a great deal of time contemplating the wages of grief. At first, it felt like the wages of grief were only hopelessness and deep, dark sorrow. One can’t help but ask themselves “why my child?”, “why not me instead?”, “why in the first place?” The question I hear most often is “Why would a loving Father allow us to hurt so much?” I suppose we may never know (at least in this life) why some are required to suffer greatly while others are not. One thing I do know, for certain, is our Father loves us, and He loves us a whole lot. I know because I have felt it all along our journey, even deep in my wilderness of grief. In the darkest corners of my soul, He has offered me hope and peace.
The wages of grief are not always easy to see – especially when our vision is smeared by tears, pain and misery. Though painful beyond belief, grief is teaching me things I would have never learned in comfort and relief. Painfully, it is shaping me, and with heaven’s help it is not breaking me. And with each tear I shed, I am beginning to see things differently.
I still wrestle with grief every single day, but I am learning to carry my sorrows in a different way. Deep in the wilderness of grief I may be tempted to feel forsaken and alone … but when I quiet my soul and listen, I hear my Father and my little son leading me home.
Leading me home.
My dear wife and I had just delivered the most difficult public address of our lives. It had never occurred to us that parents don’t typically speak at their child’s funeral because emotions are so very near the surface. For some reason, we did.
After the funeral service we made the somber journey to the cemetery. My little son was in the hearse in front of us and all I could think was, “He must be so cold and scared and lonely.” I had those same nearly schizophrenic feelings when I was 19 years old and drove my father’s casket alone in the back of a pickup truck from Edmonton to southern Alberta. It was snowing outside and I agonized that my dad was cold and I wanted to protect him like he so often tried to protect me. I cried a lot on that long drive – I was young, sad and very much afraid. Although those feelings of wanting to protect my father were strong then, they were so much more intense toward my son. What you see here was the worst commute of my life.
As we followed our little boy I couldn't help but also think back on my life with Mitch. Instantly I had feelings of guilt and grief and a longing to hold him such that I had never before known. I cried on this drive, too – and my soul cried out even harder.
I couldn't imagine it then, but I see it now: death and dying, the funeral and all its preparations, as difficult as they are … that’s the easy part. It is in the quiet of things, long after death has come to steal away that which is most precious … it is when the dust settles and the world spins madly on … that is when the struggle truly begins.
I have heard many who wrestle with grief share feelings of personal guilt over a million-and-one things they wish done differently. I understand those feelings because I have felt them, too. I wrote in a post last December, “That list of “what ifs”, however counterfeit and scattered with lies, remains glossy, persuasive and deceptively wise.”
Though I may be tempted to feel guilt for what might have been, or perhaps even should have been, I know I always had the welfare of my family at heart and I did the very best I knew how. I wasn't perfect, but I was perfect at trying – and that is good enough for me. Grief is hard enough – guilt makes grief more difficult. Guilt is a lot like fire: if it is properly managed it can wield great power and affect change. If mismanaged, or gets out of control, it can burn us and cause deep scars.
Yet there are so many moments that invite feelings of guilt: from the foolish things people say, to those who suggest we’re grieving wrong … because we’re not doing it their way. To all of that nonsense I say, ignore it. It is easy to critique the grief of others for those who never knew it or bore it.
I don’t feel guilty for having good days or moments of happiness – as though I've betrayed some unspoken rule of grief. To the contrary, I seek after such moments daily. We are made to find joy – and joy is what I seek.
On the other side of the grief spectrum there are some who suggest, “Mitch wouldn't want you to be sad.” Yet, I am sad that he is gone. I don’t feel guilty for grieving or feeling deep sorrow over the loss of my son … for I believe he understands my grief … that grief is the language of the heart and points to unspeakable love and unimaginable loss. Why feel guilty for that? I don’t feel guilt for grieving and I never will.
Mixed in the many layers of grief are the questions “Why me? Why this? Why?” We may never know the answers … at least in this life. But, I can’t help but think there’s a relationship between grief and grace. At least to me, it seems if we endure our struggles well, grief can become our teacher and open our hearts to a deeper compassion toward others.
Though I wish the death of my son never happened, it did. Shaking my fist at God in anger won’t change that … in fact, such anger would change me … and I don’t want that.
I’ll never turn my fist toward God. Instead, I turn my ear toward Him and do my best to listen. And, when I slow down and give my heart some space, I am convinced grief is a key to grace.
Mitchell’s funeral was a year ago, tomorrow. I have done a lot of public speaking in my life and there was no address more difficult than speaking at my son’s funeral. Although a year has passed, my knees still shake and my hands tremble from grief.
On the day of his funeral I couldn't believe all that was happening – everything was surreal. The months following I would awake each morning with feelings of absolute horror and breathlessness. I would scramble out of bed in a panic hoping that somehow everything was an awful nightmare. Some mornings, half awake, I would run to his room only to discover it empty- then fall to my knees in utter grief. Not a day has passed that I haven’t wept for my boy. Although I feel an increase in peace these days, I still cry and I still grieve. I think I always will.
It wasn't until we took Wyatt to a Grief Camp last fall that I realized how individual grief truly is. Although my wife and I could love and guide our 7 year-old son through his sorrows, his pain was his alone to process. I couldn't do that work for him … no more than anyone can do the same for me. Later that night I wrote in my journal “After all is said and done, grief is a journey traveled by one.”
I have discovered managing the grief of losing a child is incredibly complex. How does one save another from drowning when they are drowning themselves? As a husband and father I have sometimes found myself hanging by a thread, desperate to tread, while trying to process my own sorrows. I have sensed that grief, if not managed, could easily swallow me up. Yet I know there is more to this equation of sorrow than me. At the same time I see my sweet wife, who aches just as much as I do, and also in ways I do not know – for I am not a mother. I reverence her sorrow more than my own. On top of our mutual grief, I have my other children who each hurt in their own, real ways. I must also care about their sorrows, too.
To be clear, I am not drowning in grief – though I tread its waters and I can tell they are deeper than deep.
I am learning new things about grief every day. So far, I have found if I set aside my sorrows, even if only for a moment, and try to lift and love my family who also hurt, somehow I hurt a little less. Oh, I still hurt - but just a little less. Therein is that heavenly paradox of which I've earlier wrote … that the only way to save ourselves is to save others.
Yet, after all is said and done, grief is a journey traveled by one.
As we walked out of the viewing room with my two boys pushing Mitchell’s casket down the hall, I found myself terrified to turn the corner and walk in the chapel where hundreds of people waited for the funeral to begin.
When I was 18 years old I did the same thing, only I was following my father. I had never really been to a funeral before. I mean, I've been to funerals as a child, but I was never really there because those who passed were people I didn't know and, as young boys, playing with long-lost cousins was all we ever seemed to care about. So suddenly I found myself actually there … at a funeral … following my father who was a broken, lonely man and had become a dear friend to me. I had grown to care so much about him and he was suddenly gone. When we entered the chapel everyone rose to their feet out of respect. I was unprepared. I didn't know that’s what people do and I was taken aback by all that came in honor of my father. Through tears and blurred vision I made my way to the pew. And thus began my first journey through the maze of grief.
So, 22 years later I found myself once again at a funeral … reluctant, heavy with grief, this time following my precious son. I was afraid to turn the corner because I knew what would happen and I didn't think I could witness so many rise to their feet in honor of my broken son. By my side was my tender wife who was also broken and I didn't know how to help pick up the pieces and put her back together again. How I wanted to …
As we were about to enter the chapel I desperately wanted to stop the procession, pick up my son and put an end to the nightmare … to call off the joke or the misdiagnosis because surely there had been a big mistake. Like a horrifying dream from which I couldn't wake, a part of me wanted to race him back to the hospital and infuse his body with warm blood and start his weary heart again. After all, he was just with us days ago – why couldn't he be with us once again? I was desperate to hold Mitch, and kiss his neck and his face and love him like I didn't know to do … until this very moment. These are but some of the games the mind plays when processing the impossible.
It seems to me that many good people on the other side of grief, the observers, can sometimes have it all backward. Somehow they’re tempted to think, as I used to think, grief is greatest leading up to and at the moment of death … perhaps a few weeks after. But all of that is easy, by comparison. Grief, with all its weight and fury, takes its crushing toll in the emptiness that remains, in the dull silence long after our loved ones have gone.
We are fast approaching the first anniversary of my son’s passing. I still have much to say about grief and sorrow, faith and family, love and loss. I have much to say about God and His tender mercies – for we have seen many. And though I cry out in grief and sorrow [and oh how I cry, and oh how I grieve] I thank God I was blessed with my son.
Some of what I have written and will soon post will be the rawest of my writings yet. They will be hard and will surely draw the criticism of armchair pontiffs and self-appointed moralists. But this is my story and my beliefs – and I share them without apology.
Lest anyone wonder that we wallow in grief, rest assured where we stand today is different than where we stood last week. Each day is a struggle, each night laden with grief. But we are turning corners, step by step, and making progress week by week.