Posts tagged Mitchell's Favorite
THANK YOU FOR REMEMBERING

Yesterday we took our kids to the same place near Park City where we went sledding with Mitch just before he was hospitalized from heart failure. This was his last outdoor activity in mortality and we wanted to do something as a family that honored what Mitchie loved to do. I loved to see my wife smile. Heaven knows how many tears she has shed, so my heart was lifted to see her enjoy time with our other kids. 

While sledding, Natalie commented how the weather conditions were almost identical to the day we went with Mitch. After sledding we went to the same pizza place (www.thepie.com) and sat by the same fireplace as we did with Mitch. Wyatt stood diligently by the soda machine and mixed drink combinations like a chemist. Ethan and Laura-Ashley laughed as we talked about funny things. Natalie sat with her back to the fireplace with a warm smile on her face. My heart nearly burst.

When it comes to grief rituals, I have found it interesting how tracing our path with lost ones can bring some measure of comfort. 

It was a hard yet wonderful day. 

We want to thank all of you who reached out publicly, privately and personally to offer love and support during the last few days. This has been an especially tender weekend for our family and your love has been felt as well as heard. We read every single post and wish we could reply to everyone. I’ll do a better job at liking each post - if only to acknowledge we read what you wrote – however much I would like to respond personally to each comment. 

Although we grieved the loss of our son, at the same time, we also recognized the many families we have come to know who have lost children or loved ones … and people who hurt deeply for any number of reasons. We cried not only for our loss, but for many of you, too. We mourned not only for our son, but for everyone that hurts – and we prayed that every weary heart might find rest.

Thank you … all of you, for remembering. Thank you for loving others more freely. Thank you for making this world a better place.

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THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT A SISTER

I remember gently waking my daughter, who was deep asleep, to let her know her little brother passed away. You know those rare moments in life that you remember with vivid detail? The smells, the color of light, the layout of a room, and exactly what you were doing at that very moment something big happened … those details of life that seem to crystallize in your mind. Forever. I remember, as a young boy, exactly where I was when I heard the space shuttle Challenger exploded. I don’t remember anything else that happened that year … not like I remember that moment. I just remember crying as a young boy because I knew people were hurting over such a loss. 

Well, this night was one of those moments I will never forget. “Ash” I said with a whisper. She arose instantly, as if her body and soul knew something terrible had happened, “I’m so sorry, but Mitch passed away.” No sooner had I uttered those words than her eyes gushed with tears as she fell back to her pillow and wept. 

Laura-Ashley faithfully loved and served her little brother and they had developed a deep bond between them. I marveled how she balanced softness with strength – a testament that we, being human, are quite capable of being both. On the one hand she would speak ever-so tenderly with Mitch and you could tell she listened with her heart as much as her ears. At the same time she would carry her not-so-little brother on her back with ease. She was strong, yet tender … a beautiful blend of attributes I long to possess.

I took this photo on the California coast while on our last summer adventure with Mitch. He loved the ocean and was fascinated by the power of waves. At this time in his life Mitch couldn't play in the ocean by himself because even the smallest wave would knock him helplessly over. Where smaller children could play in the splash and froth of the ocean’s edge, those same waters were more punishing for him. Even the smallest wave threatened to knock him over. Any prolonged exposure to even moderately deep water, causing him to adapt to the ebb and flow of the current, would tire his muscles quickly and he would most certainly drown if left to his own strength.

Laura-Ashley, this beautifully kind sister, sensing little Mitch wanted to experience the ocean again, heaped her brother on her back and began walking into the water. Mitch laughed and squealed as the waves rolled by and tickled his feet. It occurred to me at this moment, in ways it hadn't before, that there’s something very special about a sister. 

As I photographed them playing I remember being washed over by waves of love and gratitude for my daughter and my son. Of all the world’s greatest riches, none compared to the treasure of this moment with my children. They were a gift to each other, and their love was awesome to see. Love, after all, is the substance of life and the fabric of eternity. 

When I look at my own life experience, it seems to me that sisters and mothers seem to balance out fathers and brothers.

I don’t know what it is, exactly. I only know the world is richer because it is filled with loving sisters.

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ORDINARY MOMENTS

I remember walking down our stairs early one summer morning to find my boys playing quietly on the couch. Mitch slid down the stairs on his tummy and brought his favorite green and purple blankets with him. Ethan, being the stronger of the two, ran to the basement and lugged a plastic container filled with trucks, “guys”, and a medley of other toys upstairs. Both of my boys, gleefully unaware of their bedheads, began to play.

Mitch watched carefully as his brother showed him a trick from the top of the couch. “Ahhhh!” Ethan said with a descending tone as his truck tumbled down an imaginary cliff. I could see in my youngest son’s countenance that he was learning how to play in new ways, because of his brother’s example.

I sat on the steps quietly and watched these brothers just be themselves. My heart smiled. I always wanted children, and I knew I would love them. But I never knew how deeply I would love them. I simply wasn't prepared.

These were days of peace and serenity. Sometimes, when I grieve, I visit these lovely, ordinary moments in my mind and my heart finds rest. I am reminded that life was so good to me … and still is good to me. Though I carry the weight of grief and sorrow, I also feel gratitude and joy that serves as a counterbalance.

I can’t help but think how quickly these ordinary moments can slip by unnoticed. It is dangerously easy to confuse the ordinary as routine and uninteresting. Nothing is so taken for granted as the ordinary. Yet, when I think back on my earlier days, it is the ordinary that I long for. I don’t seek after the photos of our family standing at the gates of Disneyland or posing at some historical monument. I thirst for images of my ordinary life – for that is the substance of life. 

At least to me, those seemingly ordinary moments are like bricks. They may seem identical in shape, color and substance, but over time, as we lay them brick-by-brick, moment upon moment, they can make something beautiful. 

Though I cannot see with my mortal eyes what our little family has created, brick by brick, moment by moment, I can feel it with my heart. And in moments of grief, when the storms of sorrow beat at my weary soul, I can go inside that place and seek refuge. Those ordinary moments I’m tempted to think are nothing special are in reality, really quite special.

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LIVING FEARLESSLY

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.

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