In the summer of 2012 Mitch attended his last Cousin’s Camp where he was given a medal of honor for bravery. During the camp’s closing ceremony, his grandpa Garth called Mitch forward in front of the other cousins and awarded him for a quick decision that may have saved the life of one of his cousins.
The year prior Mitch and his cousin Ray were riding 4-wheelers when Ray’s vehicle tipped over and pinned him to the ground. They were quite a distance from the ranch house … far enough away that any cry for help would have gone unheard. Immediately following the accident Mitch hurried his 4-wheeler back to the ranch to tell some adults Ray was in an accident and in trouble. Because Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy weakened his muscles, little Mitch was powerless to lift the 4-wheeler from his cousin to help him personally. So, he did what we could do by racing to get help. Ray was seriously injured and bleeding internally. It was thought by his ER doctors he may not have survived more than an hour if left untreated.
Mitch didn't think much of his actions – he was only concerned for safety of his cousin and did what he thought anyone would do. Because a year had passed from the accident, this event was far from Mitchie’s mind. As far as he was concerned, all had been forgotten. But many of the adults didn't forget and they sought to help Mitch feel appreciated and special. They didn't need to do this for Mitch, but they did it anyway and I can’t help but feel this a tender mercy for my struggling son who often wondered if he would ever amount to anything.
I feel a wide spectrum of emotions when I look at these three images. On the left, our shy son was being given a gold medallion as a symbol of honor and appreciation from a loving Grandfather who cared deeply for his grandkids. Then the image of Mitch (top right) with his cousin, Ray … back together again, so they could laugh and play. On the bottom right is an image of Mitch was surrounded by cousins with arms linked cheering for him.
They gave the greatest gift anyone could ever give: they gave their love and they gave it freely. Mitch would later tell me his thoughts of this day with tears in his eyes – grateful for the love he felt from others. Though confused by the attention he received, he felt special and that was a gift greater than anything material.
When I was in college I had a dear friend teach me something powerful about labels. She would often say to me “you’re nice” in response to something I might have said or done. At first I was startled by that label because I never considered that I might be nice. And if I wasn't, after she labeled me, I sure wanted to be. I learned quickly that we often become what we’re labeled – and whenever she called me nice, I only tried harder to be nice to everyone.
So, on this warm summer day, Mitch was given a label much like my old college friend gave me. In every way that mattered, Mitch felt they labeled him. He felt like they said, “You are brave. You are good. You are loved.” These labels lifted Mitchell’s spirits and gave our little boy who was unable to much, a deep feeling that he mattered.
I hope on that fateful night, as my son’s life faded away and his spirit drifted to that place beyond the hills, I hope that this experience at cousin’s camp crossed his mind and gave him comfort and courage. I hope he felt the love and encouragement from those around him who cared. I hope those labels gave him the courage to look into the light, far past the darkness that was swallowing up his tattered body.
Sometimes I wonder what might have happened to my son’s soul when he crossed over to the other side. Perhaps there was a reunion of another sort. Maybe my earthly father greeted him and gave Mitch an emblem of courage; perhaps family long gone may have gathered round him and said “You did it! You were brave. You were good. You are loved.” Whatever happened, I am certain my son felt the goodness of Heaven above.
Parenthood … the most curious of things … how our love and concern for our children reaches far beyond those living. Though he is gone to a place that cannot be seen, I am still concerned about my son’s well-being. Such is parenthood. Such is love. I suppose it’s not too different from the worries of our Father above. For we, too, are loved.
It was a cold January afternoon when a kind man walked up our steep driveway with a tattered cardboard box in his arms. Inside that box was a tender, shivering puppy for one sick little boy. Mitch was so excited to have a little furry friend to call his own.
I think on some level Mitch was beginning to feel increasingly lonely because all of his peers were moving far past him. It wasn't that they didn't care about him … to the contrary, his friends loved him. But as they were getting older and physically stronger, Mitch was growing increasingly weak. The world Mitch used to know was beginning to pass him by and he was beginning to feel more and more isolated. He didn't complain about this, but as his father, I knew what was happening. I sensed it as only a parent can.
About a week before my son passed away he lay on the floor in tears saying how much he wished he could do in real life what he was only able to do in video games. He had just played a skateboard game and wanted so much to do those tricks “for real.” My heart broke as I saw my little boy long to be like every other little boy. Life and hardship would take that away from him and that pains my heart.
I don’t know what drove my father-in-law to give little Mitch a puppy, but the timing of that gift was nothing short of miraculous. Two weeks later Mitch would go to the hospital, then be sent home to die. This little puppy was such a comfort to Mitch. I will share more about those tender mercies in future posts, and some are especially tender, but there is no doubt in my mind this little gift was an act of inspired kindness. Heaven’s hand was very much in this gift.
I posted a short video of that sweet exchange here: vimeo.com/58228257
At some point, as Mitch was getting to know his puppy, I turned my camera toward my father-in-law and captured this image. This good man, who bore the scars of age and experience on his face, stood quietly against the wall and seemed to find great joy in the happiness of my son. I love everything about this photo … not that it is a good photo (because it is not) … I love this image because it captured someone in the very act of goodness. This is what goodness looks like.
I admire the person who thinks less about heaping riches unto themselves and instead looks for ways to love and lift others. I am convinced the key to a rich life isn't found in what we keep, but instead what we give.
I think there’s a special place in heaven for this good man. When I grow up, I want to be just like this man. For he is good and he has a rich life.
As Thanksgiving nears, I can’t help but be overwhelmed with gratitude. Though I lost my son, a little person and friend most precious to me, I am grateful I had him in the first place. I am grateful for my family, true friends and all of you. I am grateful for goodness.
It was only a few years ago we were in Wyoming to spend time with family. My father-in-law was born in Wyoming but lived much of his life in Utah. As his retirement neared he decided to purchase a small cabin deep in the vaguely flat fields of Wyoming. At first I thought it a strange move and often wondered why he purchased a place out there. Then it occurred to me how, at some point in our lives, most everybody yearns to go home. Suddenly I understood.
So on this mid-Saturday morning, sitting in this small cabin filled with all manner of children, grandchildren and in-laws I saw something that swept my heart to the heavens and back. I had just sat on the couch for a bit to write in my journal when I noticed through the chaos of people and things a tender conversation between Mitch and his grandfather. This was the same grandfather who, just a few years later, would give Mitch a puppy to call his own, just weeks before he died. You can watch that sweet exchange here: vimeo.com/58228257
Mitch had just painted a hat and was showing his loving grandfather what he had worked so hard to do. I could tell by the tender look on Mitchell’s face he appreciated how much grandpa cared. Though I was surrounded by the noise of 15 people scuttling about the activities of the day, time slowed down for me and I watched this quiet exchange with tears in my eyes. I hid my face behind my camera, so as not to be noticed or draw attention. I was so grateful for the love and quiet attention my son received – for this moment, among many others, shaped him.
My father-in-law has no idea this picture exists and I am quite certain he doesn't remember this ordinary, but beautiful exchange. But I remember this and many more like them – and I have photos of them, too. These moments remembered are like bandages that bind up my broken heart. They remind me that my son had a good life and that he was surrounded by people who loved him – and Mitch felt it. These happy moments give my heart, stricken with grief, a moment of peace and sweet release.
As I look upon this nearly invisible exchange, a conversation that lasted no more than 2 minutes, I am reminded why we are here in the first place. I can’t help but wonder if the Father of our souls lovingly looks at our own messy efforts, despite how critical we might be of ourselves, and is pleased to see we did the best we knew how. Mitch did the best he knew how, and it was perfect. Nothing more could have been asked of him – I was so proud of Mitch.
The older I get the less I fixate on perfection and the more I am satisfied with growth – however fast or slow. I know many perfectionists whose greatest weakness is perfectionism. They are tyrannized by order, symmetry, and technical flawlessness – so much so, their appetite for perfection bleeds into their human exchanges and they often miss the point of things and damage relationships. Oh there’s a time and a place for perfection; I expect a bridge, or a building, or an aircraft be engineered perfectly. But in matters of the soul, we tend to build and rebuild ourselves with materials we cannot see – which makes the struggle of human growth woven with great difficulty.
At least for me, life is an exercise of trial and error, failures and triumphs, stumbling down and getting back on our feet again. In the end, I believe we’ll all come to know the purpose of life is to gain experience and grow. One day, in that place beyond the hills, I believe we will look back on our own struggles and see how, because of them, we were made stronger, more compassionate and more like our Father.
I’ll never forget Mitchell’s messy hat, colored with chaotic splotches from his young, inexperienced hand. It was perfect. Nor will I ever forget this seasoned grandfather, a man who quietly longed to be home, who offered love and attention to my son. Though, mortal and imperfect, in that moment he was perfect.
I hope, at the end of my days, my Father will see far past my weaknesses, which are many, and look upon my heart; for there is love in there, it has been that way from the very start.
I am grateful for this sweet exchange, and many like them, that remind me to look for perfect moments, not perfect people. Perfection, at least in matters of the soul, has more to do with effort than exactness – the invisible things we do, over time, that shape our heart, minds and souls.
This was Mitchell’s last time at his grandmothers – the place, other than home, he loved to be above all others. I’m not sure if it was the chocolate cake from Costco she would get especially for him, or the small 4-wheelers he could ride into the woods, or if it was the escape from life as he knew it, maybe it was the unbridled love he received – but whatever it was, he wanted to be there.
As we stood at the door and said goodbye my mother reached behind Mitch, who is as shy as he is sweet, and kissed his cheek. I could tell Mitch felt so good inside. I think everybody deserves to feel good inside.
I captured this tender moment with my phone. As we left her place there was a certain heaviness in my heart. I didn’t know where my feelings were coming from – I just sensed something was happening. Something significant. As we drove away I struggled to swallow the lump in my throat. Had I known this was his last trip there, I would have begged to stay another day or two. My mother said after we left she just sat on the floor and wept. Perhaps her soul, not knowing the end was coming, was being prepared for this loss.
It was the last few days of November and the Christmas holidays were just around the corner. I could tell Mitch was excited to see what Santa would bring –but he was even more excited about the gifts he was going to give everyone else. Mitch always gave to others freely. I think deep inside he felt no matter how much he gave, he always got more in return.
Even when Mitch was home on hospice, he spent his hard-saved money on a collection of Warheads (very sour candy) and gave them away. I remember sitting with him on the edge of his bed as he separated the flavors. He softly pointed to the blue raspberry ones and said almost in a whisper, struggling to breathe, “These ones are rare. They’re my favorite.” He then grabbed my hand and put the precious 3 candies in my palm, then closed my fingers and pushed my hand back to me. I said to him, “Oh, no Mitchie, these are yours. You keep them because I know you love them.” As I reached to give them back he pushed my hand back to me with a gentle smile and said, “No, you keep them. And I want you to eat one right now.” My heart sank a little because I wanted him to have his favorite treats, but I realized in that moment that letting Mitch give was the gift he really wanted.
So, I opened one quickly and put it in my mouth. Mitch began to smile and giggle as I puckered and writhed over the intense sour candy that was destroying my taste buds. Mitch finally burst out in laughter as he saw me cry out “I can’t take it!” For Mitch, giving was a win to him. And seeing me almost gag over the super-sour candy was a second win that paid dividends of giggles and laughter.
I still have those other two candies in a special box that contains treasures from Mitch.
Mitch reminds me daily what it means to win. Sometimes life gives us double-wins when everything turns out as planned. Other times we do our best and appear to fail; but if we are honest and do our best we have already won, regardless of the outcome. What is winning, really? It is doing the right thing – no matter the cost. Mitch always did the right thing. And more often than not, he won twice.
With all his double-wins, my little boy lost his battle with life … yet he won his soul by the way he lived it. And, by the grace of God, while I stumble and fall a million times as I chase after my son, I hope to hold him once more. I hope to look into his innocent eyes and thank him for helping me understand to do good and be good is what it means to truly win.