At the head of my son’s bed lay his favorite Halo mask and toy gun.
I purchased that mask when Mitch went to work with me, just before his last Halloween. He loved to have pretend battles with his friends; many of whom would call him “Sir” or “Master Chief” to show their willingness to follow his lead. While Mitch was physically weakest among them, he possessed a strength and influence that transcended muscle and bone. Mitch, unaware, was a quiet but natural leader.
Even to this day, almost two years since I lost him, he leads me in the battle field of life. Whether I wrestle with enemies of the mind and heart, or take refuge from a sudden onslaught of grief, Mitch has shown me what it means to fight the good fight and to endure suffering with a grateful, loving heart. Though I cannot always control the struggles of life, I can decide how to respond to those struggles. How I respond makes all the difference.
I draw strength and inspiration from my timid little boy who struggled to walk, breathe and eventually live. I'll never forget little Mitch laying in this very spot, saying in shallow breath, “I don't think I can survive.” That quiet utterance broke my heart then and it breaks it again today.
Little Mitch faced an implacable, fatal enemy; and though DMD took his life, he fought the good fight, and he won. Mitch reminded me the battles that matter most in life have less to do with the body and more to do with the soul.
He taught me how to look past my troubles and find gratitude with what I have. Mitch taught me whatever I have is enough … and when there isn't enough, to share anyway. Mitch taught me how to bear my burdens with a glad heart and cheerful countenance. He showed me a heavenly paradox … that to lift another’s burden strangely lifts my own. These lessons, and many others, have sunk deep into my bones.
My sweet boy fought the good fight, and though he died, he won. As I face different battles I hope to fight the good fight so that one day, on some distant field, I might see my son.
If you ever need someone to paint your puppy like a panda, I just discovered I'm not your guy. Mitch loved pandas and he would have probably giggled at dad-fail #1,000,002.
With Halloween around the corner, I can’t help but think of Mitchell’s last.
Trick-or-Treating was always difficult for him. Because his muscles were wasting away he couldn't go very far … each year his Halloween adventures became shorter and shorter. Even though he had a motorized scooter, getting up and down, climbing a stair or two to reach a neighborhood door was exhausting for him. He usually couldn’t visit more than 6-7 homes before he could hardly walk and wanted to go home.
In order to help him, Mitchell’s brothers or sister would often take his trick-or-treat bag to the door while Mitch sat in his scooter on the sidewalk. Generous neighbors would lovingly place candy in his bag as little Mitch smiled in the darkness. He was always grateful.
There was another aspect to Halloween Mitch loved even more than treasuring candy unto himself. Mitch loved giving candy away at the door. To some of his closest friends who approached the door, Mitch would give them his favorite candy from his own bag.
I took this photo of Mitch on his last Halloween. He wanted to stay home and give out candy instead of trick-or-treating himself. Each time the door would shut he would turn around only to have a big smile on his face.
Mitch learned early in his life that in giving he received so much more than those who got; a life lesson he never forgot.
Later that winter my mother came to visit for a few days. We were cuddled in the basement watching a movie when Mitch struggled to get up from the couch and waddled in his funny way over to his grandmother and offered her some of his favorite cheese popcorn (from Popcornopolis). I don’t think my mother realized at the time (or even to this day) the physical struggle he went through to simply get up and share what he loved. I remember that moment so vividly. It wasn't the popcorn that really mattered to Mitch, it was the giving … and it was his struggle to give that made it all the more precious. To Mitch giving was getting.
Tomorrow will be a tender evening for me – for I will remember my little boy who loved to give more than get. I will miss seeing that big smile on his little face and most especially his warm embrace.
Not a day passes I don't think of my son’s quiet example: he gave freely when he had so little to give, and now that is how I want to live. I often marvel and wonder, “How could it be? A little boy, mortally broken, who taught me how to see ...” One day, with a weary and broken heart, I will fall to my knees and thank my Father for sending me Mitchie.