The funeral director told us it was time to close the casket and suddenly I gasped for air and tried to hold back my tears - but nothing could stay my sorrow. This was it. I wasn't ready to look upon my son for the last time – to say goodbye to his little body, his sweet face … this little boy I used to cuddle, hug and laugh with. My youngest son, Wyatt stood beside me and watched me in grief and sorrow tuck his older brother one last time.
I carefully pulled Mitchell’s favorite blanket up to his chin, like I did every night, and said “I love you little boy … my sweet son. Oh, how I love you.” I cried a father’s tears … and until that moment I had tasted no deeper tears. I had never known so great a sorrow as to say goodbye to my child. Sweet Mitch trusted that I could keep him safe from harm. He thought there wasn't anything I couldn't do. When he looked at me he saw superman. When I looked in the mirror I saw a broken man. But I tried. God knows how hard I tried. But I was only human.
Months later, my oldest son, Ethan, came into my office while I was writing an entry for Mitchell’s Journey. I was unprepared for the interruption and my eyes were red and filled with tears. Ethan asked, “Dad, are you okay?” I immediately tried to be superman and put on a brave face, wiping my eyes and said, “Yeah, I’m okay” … as if to suggest all was well and that I was simply rubbing my tired eyes. But Ethan was discerning and knew better: I could tell by his expression he knew I was grieving.
In that moment I thought to myself, “What good do I do my children when I pretend?” I realized I do him no favors when I am not being real. I paused a moment then looked Ethan in the eye and said, “Actually, I’m not okay. But I’m okay. Do you know what I mean?” Relief washed over his face and I could tell he not only understood but that he was glad I was being real … as if it gave him permission to be real, too. I wanted my son to know that it is okay to hurt … that you can be “okay” but “not okay” and that’s okay.
Ethan and I talked about Mitch for a while and he shared some of his sorrows about losing his younger brother. We both cried together. I hugged Ethan and let him know how much I loved him – every bit as much. We crossed a threshold with grief that day. My son knew it was okay to hurt and that pretending otherwise serves nobody, not even ourselves. To the contrary, we do a great disservice when we pretend.
I had a moment of truth a few years prior when I read the words of an 18th Century French writer who observed, “We discover in ourselves what others hide from us, and we recognize in others what we hide from ourselves.” When I read those words I vowed to retire my masks and get real.
I've tried to have similar exchanges with my other kids. My children, each unique, process their grief differently. And that’s okay, too. In all things I want to be real with them – for it is when we’re real that we become equipped to deal with real life.
I am still walking on Jupiter where the gravity of grief is great. The air is thin and my tears fall as generously as spring rains. Yes, I have moments of sweet relief and happiness is returning – but grief and sorrow linger. I cannot run from sorrow any more than I can run from my shadow on a sunny day. I must learn to live with love and sorrow – there seems no other way.
I’m okay … but I’m not okay … and that’s okay. That is part of being human.
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(Re-post from April 1, 2014)
As a general rule, I try to limit re-posting content but I have received a lot of requests from people to see this particular post again. Since I originally posted this story last April, almost 22 million people have seen it. To my surprise, the original post continues to get comments and shares daily – which thing I never supposed, not even in my wildest imagination. So, I share this again, not because I am stuck in grief, but because I know somewhere out there are a great many people who hurt and want to know if it’s okay to not be okay.
As the mortuary employees rolled my son to their truck I began to panic.
I had just spoken with Mitch about 24 hours earlier and I was confused how he could be gone so quickly. Though my mind knew better, my heart worried about my little boy being alone and scared in the back of their vehicle. After all, these people were strangers to Mitch and to me. They were taking my little twin away and I prayed to God that He would take my life that very moment if it meant my son might wake and live. I even prayed that I might suffer greatly, even to be thrown into the depths of hell itself, if that were the price required so my son might come back to life.
“Though I have stumbled, blinded by the pitch of night, my Father taught me to look heavenward for those little flecks of light. Those tender mercies that show me we are not alone – but instead, guided hands unseen down paths unknown.”
This was the same patio upon which Mitch and I sat many summer evenings and watched storms roll across the valley. The same place Mitch would tuck himself under my arm and watch the sun set while eating Popsicles. This was the same place he cuddled with his mom as she rocked him and faithfully read children’s books. This view, once a place of peace and beauty, had suddenly become horrifying beyond all description.
Had Mitch not passed away that morning, he would have awakened within hours of this photo and dutifully gone about his chores without ever being asked or reminded. Afterward, he would have wanted to play Minecraft and have Nerf gun wars and maybe work on a Lego project for a while. Mitch would have wanted to cuddle and talk, draw pictures and play with friends. He would have continued to be a quiet little boy who loved his life and loved his family.
The sun was beginning to rise as they rolled little Mitch away … and though night was retreating from the morning sun, the true darkness of grief was yet upon us. My mind became a kaleidoscope of terrifying thoughts and emotions.
I wept so hard that morning I thought I broke a rib.
For the next two years, almost daily, I would experience moments of horrific grief so deep I would wish for death. A great many of my earlier entries on Mitchell’s Journey, just after his passing, were born of deep sorrow and a longing to make sense of suffering. Peace would come and go like the tide. Sometimes after thundering waves of grief would thrash me about I would feel moments of sweet relief. Despite those moments of peace, the waves of grief kept coming and getting stronger. I didn't realize those waves were but a prelude to the super-storms of sorrow I would soon experience. For a season, grief grew deeper, longer and darker than I had a mind to imagine.
That’s what spectators to grief often misunderstand. They think the hard part is passed after our children die. What they don’t realize is the aftermath of loss is infinitely more difficult than everything leading up to and including death itself. Combined. You can write those words down in permanent marker. That was the easy stuff. The hard stuff doesn't come days or weeks after the passing of a child … but months and years later.
So, as I watched this horror show before my eyes I wondered if the night in my heart would ever give way to lighter days. Such a thing seemed like a dream, a universe away.
I am just entering my third year of grief and I have three words to say about tidal waves and darkness: it will pass. I know this because I have experienced it.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not done with grief. Rather, grief isn't done with me. I am still healing and probably always will. In fact, just the other day I got in my car and out of nowhere I started gasping for air, afraid I might suffocate as I wept for my son. Those unexpected moments of grief come crashing down on me like a tidal wave and I have just learned to let it happen – because I have discovered those moments pass, too.
I have discovered happiness again. Not the illusion of happiness, but real, actual happiness. It isn't found in denial. It isn't found in things. It is found in discovering purpose and meaning. Though I ache deeply for my son, and grieve for him daily, I think I’m beginning to understand a little about why Mitch had to suffer the way he did.
Though I have found happiness and am grateful for increasingly longer moments of peace and tranquility, I know enough about my own grief journey to realize there are storms of sorrow yet ahead. There will be tidal waves of grief the likes of which I cannot describe … I only know how soul crushing they feel.
To those who are just beginning their journey with grief; I promise you, as impossible as it sounds … the pain will ease and you’ll begin to find peace. Though I have stumbled, blinded by the pitch of night, my Father taught me to look heavenward for those little flecks of light. Those tender mercies that show me we are not alone – but instead, guided hands unseen down paths unknown.
To my dear friends here who wander, deep in the shadows of death and sorrow, I promise you the sun will rise again on some tomorrow.
Our annual Mitchell's Journey charity run is in two weeks; I can't believe how fast time goes by.
If you plan on running virtually and want to get your run shirt on time, you will need to register before midnight, April 14th, 2015 (tomorrow).
Here is a link to purchase the shirt: https://www.raceentry.com/races/miles-for-mitchell/2015/shopping
To join our virtual run:
https://www.raceentry.com/races/miles-for-mitchell/2015/register
We will still accept virtual registrations and shirt orders - but we will not be able to guarantee you'll get them on time the closer we get to the day of the run. We just want to be sure those who want them for our global run get them in time.
I'll post a world map of all the places around the world we have people running (or walking) in honor of little Mitch. Also, I have posted some goals Miles for Mitchell here: http://tinyurl.com/mtj84pb
I am so grateful for our Miles for Mitchell committee who has volunteered their time and talents to help this run be a success.
Several years ago I was visiting Rio Tinto to discuss a leadership development course I was designing for them. Before I left their mine site, I visited the gift shop and purchased a little souvenir for each of my kids. I knew Mitch loved gold, so I got him a little water vial filled with tiny flakes of a gold-like material. I remember handing it to Mitch only to see his eyes grow big and his smile even bigger. After admiring it for a while, I followed him to his room where he carefully placed it in his nightstand drawer, among his other treasures. His room, untouched since the day of his passing, still contains all the things he held dear, just the way he left them.
It wasn’t many months later Mitch came to my office with a serious look on his face. In his hand was the little vial of gold and a big question, “Dad, how much do you think I could sell this gold for?” My first instinct was to chuckle a little because it was such a cute question. I refrained. I could tell Mitch had something on his mind and when asked, he said he wanted to sell his gold so he could purchase a new Game Boy he had been saving up for. Unaware I purchased the souvenir for around $10, Mitch thought the gold was real and that it might be worth millions. I love the innocence of children.
I told Mitch that my little souvenir was only a symbol of gold, not real gold itself. I apologized that he thought it was worth more than it was. I could tell he felt a little deflated and that his youthful imagination got the best of him. I then got on my knees and looked him in the eyes and said, “Mitch, I have an idea. Why don’t I buy that gold from you, but you keep it safe for me?” As I handed him $50 he smiled and nodded with a faint look of relief that his treasure had at least little value.
I gave Mitch a big hug and told him how sweet I thought he was. I said, “Mitch, do you know what is worth more than all the gold on earth?” With his innocent, tender eyes, he shook his head as if to say no. “You, my son. You are worth more than all the treasures that have been or ever will be on earth. I would give up everything I own to have you in my life. I would sell the clothes off my back to keep you, and keep you safe.” I then pointed to his vial of fake gold and told him, “Even if that was real gold … even if our home was made of the rarest gold … you are worth infinitely more than that.”
I knew it wasn’t possible for Mitch to understand the depth of my love; for a child cannot know the love of a parent … they can only feel an infinitesimally small portion of that love. And though he didn’t understand how much I loved him, I know he felt my love in every way a young child can.
I have never forgotten that exchange with Mitch. Since then I have thought often about life’s greatest treasures. They aren’t the things I can buy with money. In fact, I have discovered, the very things I can buy get in the way of life’s greatest treasures.
So, as I’ve been contemplating my life treasures this weekend, I stumbled into this photo of my mother and Mitch and just wept. This is my treasure. This is my family.
It’s my mother’s birthday today and I have a little something to say: thank you, mom for being so good to my son – you always made him feel special, like he was the only one.
When I think of life’s greatest treasures, a lot can come to mind. The things we work so hard to purchase, and sometimes lose our souls to find. We mine the earth and till the ground, to harvest earth’s great bounty. Some choose spend their lives with drunken eyes in pursuit of things, forever they are counting. If I’m not careful, I too, can lose my mind; forgetting heaven’s promise, “seek and ye shall find.” We can waste our days chasing things of little worth; you know, the things we gather up but cannot leave this earth. Or, we can stop the madness and maybe catch our breath … long enough to awaken and remember things are only things, and to love a soul is best. So when I see this photo of my mother and my son; generations apart, yet full of love and having fun … I remember family is my greatest treasure, worth more than anything I could possibly measure.