There are so many layers to Mitchell’s Journey … so many stories to share.
I remember taking our young family to the family ranch in southern Utah. I had nicknamed it, “The Other Side of Narnia” because there was something magical about ranch’s relative isolation from the world. At first I used to get frustrated cell signals are spotty at best – most of the time I don’t get one. But then, in a moment of sanity, I realized what a blessing it is to be cut off from the rest of the mad world so I could focus on the things that truly mattered.
One summer afternoon, just before the sun was about to set, I found Mitch, tiny Wyatt and my step-father sitting on a bench by a pond talking as only grandparents and grandchildren know to do. My heart swelled with gratitude to see this good man love my children. There sat a man who didn’t raise me and had every reason to be about other things that day. For that seems to be the work of men … to be busy building, chasing or collecting things. Instead, he choose to stay with my boys and spend time with them.
In 1931, William Lyon Phelps wrote, “The final test of a gentleman is his attitude toward children. I wonder if all men remember as vividly as I do [how] grown-up people treated us …” I thought of that statement as I watched Garth … I was so grateful to see this good man spend loving time with my boys. He wanted them to know they were important and loved. That he invested time was good, but he invested his love and attention and that was greater. There is a difference.
My mother and Garth drove to our home the night Mitch passed away. I remember them both entering my son’s room, long after the sky became dark. They sat reverently at the foot of my little boy’s bed and seemed to peer upon him with sorrow, reverence and compassion. I don’t know what crossed Garth’s mind that night. Perhaps he thought of his own son he lost a few years prior. A son he loved dearly and misses so. As I looked at my step-father peer upon my dying son, I remembered this photo and tender moment between him and Mitch. To this day, I don’t think Garth knows what this singular moment meant to my son and how often Mitch reflected on it. I will forever be grateful for this moment.
I am just like every man that ever was. I am flawed and sometimes unsure of myself – and perhaps I’m more transparent than I should be. But I believe what you get should be what you see. I am also prone to build, chase and collect things. Any more, I am trying to build my family, chase my children around the couch in laughter and collect moments that matter. For in the end, those are the things that last. Those are the things that shape tomorrow and protect our hearts from a deeper form of grief and sorrow.
These are the moments that matter most. When I die and see my Father and Son, they won’t care about the cars I drove or the depth and size of my treasure trove. Instead, they’ll care more about things one cannot see … the love in my heart and whether I gave to others in need generously.
No matter how brilliant or carefully our lives are planned, if we don’t give mind to the little things, we will miss life’s magic moments. Best to catch these little moments ... catch them while you can.
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Note: Mitch loved fishing with all of his heart. This summer, Mitchell’s Journey is sponsoring an MDA Summer Camp activity named after our son. We want to help other young boys go fishing and make memories that matter. If you haven’t signed up for our Miles for Mitchell run, please do. This is the run that will help fund this activity and other things that matter.
Here’s the link to our charity run:
www.raceentry.com/race-reviews/miles-for-mitchell
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.
I learned something today that my Father did for my son. Another tender mercy.
A woman and her husband had moved into our neighborhood not long before Mitch went into heart failure. She heard that other families in my neighborhood were preparing meals for our family to offer some much needed relief. She didn't know the circumstances of our family and that little Mitch was sick and dying.
Because preparing meals for families in crisis is customary in my culture, she was no stranger to this form of service and quickly volunteered to bring dinner over one evening. Over the years she had discovered a kind of universal meal that every family seemed to enjoy. As she was making preparations for that same meal for our family, she had an impression to do something different. At first she ignored it. The more she ignored it, the stronger the impression came. Finally, the impression was so strong she could no longer deny it and knew what to make. Meatloaf.
Not knowing our family, she was nervous about how such a seemingly ordinary meal might be received. She knocked on our door and handed Natalie a variety of dishes that contained meatloaf and other things. We would have been grateful for a sleeve of crackers. Or just a hug.
What this good woman didn't know … couldn't know at the time … was meatloaf was one of Mitchell’s favorite dishes. Because his organs were beginning to fail, he wasn't eating much those days – but when he heard someone brought meatloaf over, he wanted to eat. Natalie lifted him up from his bed and carefully helped him to the kitchen table. Mitch ate like a king that night. Not only was it a treat for him, that same meal gave his beleaguered body much needed nourishment … nourishment that gave us a little more time with our son.
When this good woman shared her experience with members of our church today, my wife and I were in tears. We had no idea.
What a profound gift. My heart is overflowing with gratitude to think that a loving Father who knew Mitch was running out of time would inspire this good woman to do something that was out of the ordinary for her, so my son could find a little comfort.
If He did that for Mitch, sight unseen, I wonder what He is doing for all of us at this very moment. There is so much more to our lives than meets the eye.
Perhaps when we look back on our lives, from that place that feels so far away, the events we experienced through darkness will be made light as noon day. Then, and perhaps only then, it will finally be seen … the times we felt most alone, we in fact walked with heavenly beings.
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.