Remember the story I posted 2 weeks ago entitled MEATLOAF? Well, I just stumbled across this photo of my weary son savoring his first bite, then throwing his hand on top of my arm saying, “Dad, I just love meatloaf.” He wasn't eating much those days and this meal is what got him out of bed and offered much-needed nourishment. Nourishment that gave us more time.
That inspired act of goodness, that specific meal, offered by a woman who had no knowledge Mitch was sick and dying, is a tender mercy. An evidence of God’s love. I had no idea at the moment of this photo, the strong impressions she would receive that would lead to this very meal and how much it would mean to little Mitch. All I saw, from my limited and mortal perspective, was coincidence … even a little providence … but I had no knowledge of things as they truly were. I just knew was Mitch was grateful, and that made me happy.
It would take my wife and I almost 2 years to learn about the other side of this particular blessing. Learning of this experience has humbled me and I can't help but wonder how often I look at the proverbial table of my life and be tempted to think all that is before me ordinary. This experience reminds me how limited my sight is.
My eyes fill with tears of gratitude to know I have a Father (that WE have a Father) who cares enough about our lives to get involved in the little, seemingly ordinary things. I will spend the rest of my life thanking my Father for blessing my son this day, and every day. I am guilty of a lot of things – but I hope I am never guilty of ingratitude.
Any more, I pray that I might have eyes to see the many blessings so often blind to me. For if I had such eyes to see, I would certainly fall to my knees, humbled by the love He proffers me.
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For those who haven’t read it, here is the MEATLOAF post:
https://www.facebook.com/mitchellsjourney/photos/a.498931326803200.95172805.192859897410346/1060473063982354/?type=1&theater
As Mitch began to drift away I would look at him with a deep sorrow in my heart. I desperately wanted to scoop him up in my arms and take him to some place safe. A place like the children’s books we often read to him – a place of hope and happiness, joy and dreams. My little boy once glowing bright with laughter and childhood had become a dim candle about to flicker out. The light in his countenance had been growing dimmer by the day and I was greatly pained therewith. When I took this photo I had the distinct impression we were no longer counting the days, but the hours.
I remember cuddling next to my son just after I took this photo. I held him gently but firmly and said, “I am so sorry this is happening, son. You are so brave. I think sometimes God sends us little ones like you to teach us grown-ups what it means to be truly grown up. And Mitch, when I grow up, I want to be just like you.” Mitch squeezed my hand and smiled softly. I kissed his cheek and held him close to my chest as he drifted away, soft as a feather, into an afternoon nap.
While Mitch slept, I wept.
I wept so hard the bed was shaking and I worried I would wake him. The grief I knew then was but a foretaste of the grief to come. For death was the easy part … the echoes of emptiness and longing were a more painful hell yet to come.
I learned long ago it isn't productive to raise my fist to the heavens and wonder why we suffer. Instead I learned to turn my ear heavenward; to listen for secrets to the soul and learn what I was meant to learn. Too often people get hung up on asking the wrong questions – and therefore get no answers. They ask “why would God do this?” When we hurt it can be tempting to shake our fists at the Universe and bemoan our circumstance as though we're being singled out or treated unfairly. But the last time I checked, life isn't fair and it rains on the just and unjust. Why should we be the only exception? The other day I learned over 150,000 people die each day. Countless others will suffer all manner of afflictions. In the few minutes it might take to shake our fist and complain about or own lives, hundreds of people will have passed from this life to the next and a great many more will mourn their absence. The world is filled with grief and suffering. Some sorrows we bring upon ourselves. Other suffering just happens, whether from an act of God or simply life in motion.
At least for me, I've come to discover suffering and sorrow are an important part of life’s learnings. Any more I worry less about the origins of my sorrows – for what difference would it make? Surely God isn’t caught off guard or surprised by the events in our lives. Whether He’s the author of some of our sorrows, as a divine teacher, or simply a patient tutor as we struggle with life in motion … He could change the course of our sorrows if He wanted to. That He often doesn't, sends a compelling message. The question I ask myself is, “Am I listening?”
So, as I laid next to my dying son, weeping in the deepest of grief, I felt a pain beyond description that left my soul weary, bruised and weak. I didn't want my little boy to go, for he was my tender son and I loved him so. Though I prayed mightily for his safe return, the answer I received was “No, my son, for there are things you must learn.”
Thus began my journey with grief, down a bewildering path in search of relief. And though I still hear the deafening sound of death’s terrible toll, I have come to understand our mortal bodies are but clothing to the soul.
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.
When Mitch called out to me at the hospital and asked if I would cuddle with him my heart melted. As father and son, we cuddled all the time, but this time was different because I knew his heart was failing and I didn’t know if it would be our last. My sweet wife took a photo of us with her iPhone as I handed Mitch a teddy bear she gave him. My little boy smiled as I kissed his forehead and softly hugged him. I wouldn't have traded that moment with Mitch for all the money in the world.
At this moment Mitch wasn't aware his life was at its end. That was a burden we would quietly carry for a few more weeks so Mitch could live as normal a life as possible. To our dismay, we couldn't protect him from the inevitable, but we could protect him from worry and fear – and in this instance, my wife and I felt that was best for Mitch. We eventually told him, but we wanted him to be happy for just a little while longer. That was our gift to him.
In the coming weeks we began to witness the miracle of the afterlife – that our son was being spiritually prepared for his own transition. I will write of those experiences another time – but there is no doubt there is more to mortality than we can see with our mortal eyes. So much more.
Even still, I find myself wrestling with grief in the most unexpected ways. Just this morning I awoke at 4:30 in a sheer panic, wanting to save my son. When I realized he was gone and I couldn't save him, I wept. I used to wake up every morning in a heart-pounding panic … thankfully those mornings are less frequent. But they still happen, and when they do, they are soul crushing. I dislike those mornings because I have to relive the shock and horror of my son’s death as if it just happened.
Just a few days ago Herriman City experienced some flooding and I was told it affected part of the cemetery. That evening, as I left work, I drove to the cemetery as quickly as I could, worried about how the flood affected Mitch. I couldn't get there fast enough and wanted to help my boy. I knew he wasn't there – but in my heart I wanted him to be. I was grateful his spot wasn't affected, but my heart went out to others who were. Even in death, I yearn to protect my son and am pained that I cannot.
Although I want so badly to protect my son, sometimes, when my soul is quiet and I’m listening with my heart, I realize the opposite is true … that now Mitch is protecting me.
One day, in what feels an eternity from now, I will see my little boy again. And I will weep. I will also realize that he is no longer a child – that, in fact, the opposite is true: the soul of my little boy is much older than I ever knew.