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
On Mitchell’s last trip to work with me a colleague went out of his way to talk to Mitch and make him feel important. When I think back on this moment my heart is filled with gratitude because there were probably a million-and-one reasons he could have ignored Mitch and focused only on the tasks that weighted heavy on his shoulders. I suppose, if he were like many people today swept up in the rush and flurry of things, he might have felt bothered, slowed down or flustered because there was a kid in the office. That was not how Corey treated my son, for he chose the better way. This moment reminded me of something William Phelps said, “The first test of a gentleman: his respect for those who can be of no possible value to him.” I have always loved that observation and I saw it in action that day.
Corey, understanding the true value of a soul, knew there was more to life than work and took time to love my son. If Mitch had lived a full life, I am sure he would have remembered that exchange with Corey as one of those building moments … those rare exchanges when you’re young that make you feel special and important and change you a little on the inside.
When we left work Mitch said in his quiet voice, “Dad, that man was really nice to me. Is everyone you work with that nice?” Immediately I felt a lump in my throat because I knew how much little Mitch valued kindness … and he was given the gift of kindness by Corey. I told him, “I think so, Mitchie. I surely hope so.” Mitch gave me a hand hug as we navigated rush-hour traffic on our slow journey home. At some point along the way Mitch closed his eyes, leaned his head against my arm and went to sleep. I cried a little that moment because I didn't know how much time I had with him – and what time I had was more precious to me than all the riches of earth. What I had in that moment with Mitch cannot be bought with money, but it does come at a price; the price of time, love and attention.
Fast forward a few months and I found myself at my little boy’s funeral, devastated and bewildered with grief. We had just said our final goodbyes and closed the casket and began the impossible walk down the hall to the chapel. My knees almost gave out a couple of times because my body just wanted to fall to the ground and weep.
As we began to turn the corner I saw Corey walking into the building to offer his love and support. He lived so far away from us and probably had a million-and-one reasons to not go, but he made it a point to offer love and kindness to our family. I quickly broke formation and gave him a hug just before we entered the chapel. Suddenly, in my mind, I heard Mitchell’s voice, almost like a whisper, “Dad, that man was really nice to me.” In my heart I said to my son, “Mitch, you were right, that man IS really nice … and nothing else matters.” He doesn't know this, but Corey’s gift of kindness to Mitch was also a gift to me because he gave my boy the gift of time and attention and made him happy.
I am grateful for people like Corey … who make a choice each day to love and lift others – even when they don’t need to. I cannot help but be brought to tears when I look at this image; for I see two sons of a loving Father who wants only for us to be nice and help each other along the way … because that’s all that matters at the end of the day. Kindness is always the better way.
Ever since he was a young boy I have taken Mitch (and my other kids) to work with me from time-to-time. When Mitch was especially tiny I would make pillow & blanket forts under my conference room table and he would cuddle in his little cave of comfort to watch movies, play with toys and eat treats while I went about my meetings for the day. I would take him to lunch and we would talk about the big stuff that was on his little mind. I treasure those memories greatly. As Mitch grew older he no longer sat under my desk but at it with a computer building digital forts in Minecraft.
This is a photo of Mitchell’s last time at work with me. He was just denied a heart transplant and I remember sitting across my desk looking at my sweet boy worried about his future. I had no idea the darkness that would soon come into my life. I saw a sweet young man who just wanted to live a normal life and enjoy the simple things.
I thought we had more time with him. I have come to learn the hour is always later than we think. Time, if ignored or mismanaged, is never on our side and becomes a thief of opportunity.
I have spent almost the last three years of my life helping to lead a company to launch that is aimed at helping people close the gap between what they value and what they do. I believe it is an inspired company and I hope it helps people live a life of greater meaning and less regret. Little Mitch was too young to really understand what my company was about – but it was because of him that I invested my time there. My family is one of my highest values, and I sought to live my values the best I knew how, and at the depths of my soul I want to help others do the same. So there Mitch sat at my desk … he just loved being around me and more than anything, I loved being around him. I was simply trying to live what I valued.
On my bookshelf is a statue of hands, one lifting another. I put it in my office as a symbol of why we exist as a company – but more importantly, a symbol of the desires of my heart. What good are hands if we don’t use them to lift others up?
Since the loss of my son I have not only struggled with bewildering grief, I have suffered the wrath of foolish men who were blinded by pride and arrogance – and sought to tear me down. While I’m no pushover, for a while I believed them and I wondered if I was capable of anything at all. A season already darkened by death became even darker by the destructive actions of others … others who knew better. I just held on the best I knew how, remembering they were human, too. I prayed to have a forgiving heart. What kept me going was remembering a profound lesson Mitch taught me: “Be nice to each other and be glad you’re alive. Nothing else matters.” I am grateful my son taught me to see past my troubles and to remember what really matters.
I have discovered grief is much like a cocoon. While we are wrapped up in grief a transformation happens whether we like it or not. At some point we will emerge from that cocoon, having become something different than we were before. What we become is largely up to us – shaped by the decisions we make during that transformation.
Today, I can feel the cocoon of grief lessen its suffocating grip on my soul. I still hurt. Sometimes deeply. But, something is changing … and I feel it is good. During brief moments of profound sorrow I wondered if there was any hope at all … hope of a life beyond such a terrible loss. To my relief, I have discovered there is.
I am still going to write of grief: the grief I feel and the grief I felt. I will share hard things and soft things – and everything in between. And as I emerge from this cocoon of grief, I will share my experience with that, too. Whatever happens during this transformation, whatever I become … I will always miss this little boy. I will always long to hear his voice and touch his face. I will always miss his companionship.
One thing Mitchell’s Journey has taught me is if we live what we value, when everything falls apart, we won’t.
Summer, at least in my part of the world, is coming to an end. I can feel the whisper of winter on the back of my neck and the sweet smell of fall is almost in the air. While I sit on the verge of a change in seasons, I can’t help but remember a warmer time - a time before hell – when I had my son with me and we went on an adventure.
We set camp in the west desert, far enough from city lights that you could see deep into the starry night. The heavens were almost close enough to touch. I remember talking to Mitch after we were tucked in for the night and looking through the net of the tent into the heavens, I asked, “Mitch, don’t you wish we could scoop up those beautiful stars and put them in our pockets like little glowing rocks?” Mitch smiled and said, “That way, when it is dark we could always see.” Mitch then burrowed into me and closed his eyes. He was the best at cuddling. I miss that.
Mitchell’s love of atmosphere and moods was one of the reasons he loved sunsets so much. On this evening the atmosphere was particularly beautiful because of some deep contrasts in color and light because of a passing storm. In every direction, save where the sun was setting, we found ourselves surrounded by towering clouds that stood like floating giants. They cast deep shadows beneath them and the contrast of light and color was thrilling to see. Each tower was also flashing with sheet lightening. In almost every direction these beautiful clouds stretched far into the horizon.
I remember wanting to take photos of the amazing sky and thought to myself, “I’ll take photos of the storm in a few minutes.” Before I knew it, it was dark and the beautiful sky that entranced us was forever gone. I regretted not taking that photo in the moment. Lesson learned.
With Mitch and my other sons cuddled next to me, we drifted to sleep. The next morning I awoke in tremendous pain - it felt like an elephant had stepped on my chest and broke my ribs. I had difficulty breathing and wondered if I had been stung by a scorpion (we caught one later that morning) or something else. As we broke our tent down I discovered I was sleeping on a jagged rock – which explained my sore ribs. I realized at that moment I should pay closer attention to where I set our tent. Another lesson learned.
After we arrived home, covered in desert dust and dry skin, I remember finding a pocket full of rocks in Mitchell’s pants. He had quietly collected little stones form the desert as souvenirs. I still have those little rocks in a special place. When I look at them I can’t help but wonder what he saw in each of them. I will forever wonder.
When I think back on moments like these, camping with my kids, I have the fondest of memories. Not all of them were wrapped in majestic sunsets and perfect moments cushioned in comfort. In fact, many of our camping trips were rather hard. We have camped in the bitter cold, high in the winter mountains; we've weathered torrential rainstorms, worried we would be swept away by a river of rain; and we have awoken to inches of new snow and many other surprises. Each was an adventure punctuated by difficulty and discomfort … yet is each a memory I am so grateful to have.
I have noticed something interesting with Mitch and my other children. Often they would draw pictures of memories they had; and with their little hands they would sketch out our campsites and recreate the most difficult moments while camping … moments that were less fun while in the moment.
I wondered why they would sketch the struggle and I asked them to tell me about their drawings. Each would say in their own way, “This was my favorite campout.” They would then explain what they loved about it. I was always surprised. These little kids with a pocket full of rocks appreciated the experience, however difficult, more than I gave them credit. I couldn't help but wonder if they were teaching me something important – that in the struggle is also the beauty.