As a young boy I used to get lost in the back woods of Edina, Minnesota. The wilderness was thick with all manner of vegetation, rocks and hills – and because of the very nature of nature you couldn't see very far. And when fog settled, you could see almost nothing.
Being lost as a young child reminds me of the landscapes of my life. Sometimes I sit upon a vista with clear skies and can see far into the horizon. Other times I am scaling my Everest – afraid I might fall. Still, other times I am traveling through a wilderness of hardship where the fog of the unknown makes seeing what’s ahead almost impossible.
Regardless of the landscape upon which I journey, I have learned to travel by faith. That doesn't mean to travel blind or dumb, but to learn to see with my other eyes and hear with my other ears. There is a difference, and it is significant.
As Mitch started to slip away, I found myself descending into a dark wilderness wherein I could see very little. The further we traveled into this wilderness of grief and sorrow the more difficult the terrain and the thicker the fog. I would hold my son’s face and tell him how much he meant to me. I would kiss and hug him and try to assure him – but inside I was terrified of losing him. I love him so very much. With each minute, each day, the wilderness became ever dark and perplexing. I have never known a wilderness such as this.
My wife came into my office today with tears in her eyes and said, “I know it’s officially tomorrow night (the morning of March 2nd) that Mitch passed away, but the day was on a Friday last year. Today is Friday.” Tears filled my eyes, too. I realized then I am still navigating the wilderness of grief. And what a wilderness it is…
The other day I stumbled upon a journal entry I wrote when I was 19 years old. I had all but forgotten about the dream – but somehow I had the presence of mind to write it down over 20 years ago. In my dream I was travelling in a forest heading to some place important, but I couldn't put my finger on where. I also had a wife and children but I couldn't see their faces and I didn't know their numbers, yet I knew they belonged to me and me them. Each of them was carrying picture frames. As we made our journey through the thick forest, at some point I realized someone was missing and I began to desperately search for my child. I was in a panic, and then my dream ended.
As I read my journal entry I lost my breath. I am now beginning to understand the meaning of that dream so many years later - and I can’t help but contemplate what God was trying to tell me about my future. He spoke to me, and I listened … and I wrote it down… but I didn't understand it. If there is one thing I've learned in my own journey; it is one thing to receive a personal revelation (or answer, or warning) but quite another to understand it.
I have discovered that while navigating my wilderness I must learn to rely on my spiritual hearing, not just spiritual sight. And learning to hear is a delicate and personal thing – borne of personal acquaintance.
Suppose I told you outside there were 2,000 mothers – one of which was mine. And say I blindfold you and told you to find her. I could describe her to you; I might say she’s 5.5, blonde short hair, a beautiful smile and kind voice. If I sent you out there to find her ---- you couldn't do it. Yet if you were to blindfold me I could find her in minutes. Why? Because I know her voice. So it is with God.
I am still navigating the wilderness of grief - almost as if blindfolded. But I have ears to hear. And while I may stumble and fall to my bruised knees in sorrow, I will get up and follow that voice that whispers ever so gently. A voice that is so quiet that if I’m preoccupied, I may not hear it at all.
One day, at the end of my wilderness, when I have learned what I must, I know I will see my son again. Only this time I will hold Mitchell’s face not in sorrow but in deep relief … for I will have closed the loop on that dream I had so many years ago; I will have found my son who was lost from my sight. And I will thank my wilderness for teaching me to hear my Father’s voice … a voice that is leading me home. I hear Him.
It was an especially hot summer that year. The desert sun beat down on our skin like an oven set on broil. For some reason, even the shade of summer trees didn't offer much relief. Although we struggled to make ends meet, Natalie and I had just saved up enough money to replace our swamp cooler with an air conditioner. Finally, our family was able to take a break from the summer heat – and we slept much better at night because our small home was comfortably cool. I remember how excited our young kids were to wear their jammies in the summer because our home was no longer hot at night.
On this occasion, Ethan and little Mitch were in the back yard jumping from our plastic jungle gym into an inflatable pool. We seemed to go through at least three inflatable pools each year because the kids were always experimenting with them and they’d invariably pop them with sticks, lawn furniture, rocks and other things. We didn't mind. While we have tried to teach our kids the importance of taking care of things, we tried to balance that with a spirit of adventure and experimentation. Getting a few cheap pools a year was a small price to pay for the memories they made.
The news of Mitchell’s diagnosis was still fresh on our minds and heavy in our hearts. While in a state of shock, we did our best to live life the best we knew how, no matter how scared we were. Looking back, I’m glad we didn't let our fear of the future overtake us – for that would have robbed us of the moment. And those moments are priceless today.
So, I sat in the shade and watched our boys laugh and play. In my mind, I began to wonder how long this pool would last, and I smiled. Little Mitch dove bravely from the jungle gym into the pool head-first. This tiny little guy never flinched at the unknown and was eager to explore the world far beyond his comfort zone. This photo is so … Mitch.
I remember thinking to myself as I took this photo how much I admired his courage and zest for life. I quietly hoped Mitch would demonstrate that same courage in the years to come as his body dove into much deeper, fatal waters. True to form, over the years, Mitch would face his fears courageously. Whether it was his first day at school, MDA summer camp, or the scare of an unfamiliar rollercoaster. That isn't to say he was never afraid. Everyone is afraid of something. Mitch just faced his fears, however scared he felt, and kept moving on. He drank life in the best he knew how – he took all of it, the good and the bad. I always admired that about him and I often found myself following his quiet example, deep in his shadow.
Mitchell’s Journey with DMD has been terrifying. Grief, even more so. Yet, I think it’s safe to say I have found a measure of peace. That doesn't mean I don’t grieve. To the contrary, I grieve deeply … so very deeply. But peace, I have discovered, hasn’t come from the absence of grief and sorrow, but in learning to cope with it. I have found the most effective way to grieve is … to simply grieve. Like Mitch in this photo, when grief comes, I just dive in headfirst. Yes, I'm afraid of grief because it hurts. But, I have found the sooner I accept the sorrow, however painful it feels, I emerge from the deep waters of grief much faster. If I resist it, I may postpone it for a season, but in the end, it catches up to me and I only prolong the hurt.
When I look at this photo I am reminded that courage has nothing to do with physical strength. It’s more a matter of the mind and heart, seeing past the things that might stop us before we even start.
Thank you little Mitch for teaching me, however painfully, to live fearlessly.
Laura-Ashley really loved little Mitch. She cared for him on a deeply personal level, and Mitch felt it. Mitch really loved her, too. I would often find him hanging out with Laura-Ashley just to talk. She always offered him her time and most importantly her attention. Nothing shows love like caring attention.
I took this photo late March, 2012. Sunday the 25th, to be exact. Winter’s bitter chill was retreating and the first real glimpse of spring had arrived. Natalie and the kids were excited to go outside and get some fresh air, so we went to a small park just down the street.
When I think back on this time in my life, things were especially hectic and my mind was weighed by a million things pulling for my attention. I had just returned from a trip to Honduras and had a lot of catching up to do and I could have told Natalie I was too busy to go with them. I am afraid, as much as I’ve tried to be with my family, I may have said that more than my broken heart wants to admit. Surely it isn't reasonable to be everywhere, all of the time; but if I’m honest with myself, I know I could have done better. I wish I would have done better … and from now on, I will try to do better. Looking back on our lives is always a tricky thing … and it seems everyone’s a genius in retrospect. Hindsight displays everything so clearly: how much time we didn't have, the better path or smarter choices and the times I should have recorded my children’s voices. Like an old film in the attic, I replay my memories, my loves, my joys, my heartaches and regrets. I must be careful to not feed my regrets – for they can devour me if I'm not careful.
I believe regret should hurt just enough so we know not to do [whatever] again; almost like touching a hot stove … heat enough to teach, but not enough to scar or debilitate.
I’m glad I went with my family this day because I was able to take some once-in-a-lifetime photos of our kids playing, Natalie nurturing and Mitch smiling. Had my priorities been on important but lesser things, I would have missed out on life’s most beautiful things. My reward for time well spent are warm memories and photos like this ... which make my heart sing. These two children taught me something about love this day.
Two months from this photo, almost to the day, we would learn Mitchell's heart was broken and he was in trouble. I made this video that very night: vimeo.com/42931543
In less than a year, everything I knew and loved would be turned upside down and my son would pass away. Ask me now the value of this day ...
I wonder how often I have been suckered into believing only the big, rare things are once-in-a-lifetime. Mitch taught me, in the most painful way, every moment of every day is once-in-a-lifetime. I don’t get to go back and do this, or any time over. Time passed is time past. All I have to take with me into the future are the memories I made ... and they can soothe like silk or draw out like the sharpest of blades.
When I see this photo I feel more love than sorrow … and like the hot stove, I hurt for a moment, forever reminded there’s no promise of tomorrow. My wife, children and fallen son are once-in-a-lifetime blessings that I won't squander, not a single one.
Mitch taught me to drink life in like a thirsty traveler: for when the journey’s done, it’s done. And that sounds like once-in-a-lifetime thing, if I ever heard one.
Last night we went to Primary Children’s Hospital to visit a young girl who is battling cancer. She was one of Mitchell’s classmates the year he died and held a special place in our son’s heart because she was always so kind to him.
Mitch often made references to Addie. I never met her, but I knew of her and how much Mitch appreciated her friendship. Natalie tells me that when she would pick Mitch up from school he would often talk about her and sometimes point out the window of the car and say "Look mom there's Addie, she played with me today during recess." Another evidence that the little things are indeed the big things. It was never lost on Mitch that she could have ran off with the healthy kids and left him behind pursuing any number of social agendas. Yet, she often chose to sacrifice regular play time to be with Mitch instead. I don't know if this young woman realizes what a blessing she was to our son.
Mitch loved Addie; and by the sound of her voice and the things she said, she really loved him. Two childhood friends who taught each other what it means to be love and serve. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall when Mitch was alive so that I might have seen these two friends play outside during recess or giggle at a game of UNO when it was cold outside. My eyes well up with tears when I think about the tender mercy she was to our little boy.
Last year I posted an entry entitled “Nightfall” which was an account of the moment we realized Mitch had passed away. I described the pain and sorrow of losing our son and how the world was especially dark. I described how it wasn't until our spiritual eyes adjusted to the darkness, which darkness was beyond pitch, that we truly began to see. Only in the darkness did we begin to see the stars … little flecks of light, tender mercies that were given to our family from a loving Father. It didn't take long before we began to see the connections between these tender mercies and they began to serve as Heavenly constellations to guide our way. Evidence we are not alone, nor are we forsaken. I made a short video with an excerpt from that entry: vimeo.com/81861739
Along this journey of grief and darkness, I have also discovered the more we look the more we can see. Isn't that the point of anything we're meant to search out and study? Our eyes adjust, our mind finally understands and our souls begin to learn things far beyond the scope of man.
So when I think of this sweet girl and what she did for our little boy, I see an exceedingly bright star. I see a tender mercy from a loving Father, an evidence He was never very far. That heavenly current of which I spoke a few weeks ago brought these two children together so they could learn to love and grow. For that, I am eternally grateful.
Anymore, I don't know that I know much about goodness or courage. Because when I see these young people face what I only witnessed as a spectator; to see them face death and hardship with such grace and courage, I am humbled to my core. I see what I want to become, and so much more.
I don't know how to gather the words to describe how I felt as we left the hospital last night. My heart was overflowing with gratitude and a deep sense all is well. All is well.
To Addie, thank you for loving Mitch and lifting his little heart. I think I see it now … perhaps you were meant to know each other from the very start.
Forever and more, dear Addie, you have our grateful hearts.
You can visit her page here: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Team-Addie-gofightwin/720147784689212