Tiny Mitch hunkered down near a bushel of wild flowers to explore the beauty of nature. Next to him, just out of frame, was his mother tenderly describing a little about the wonders of the earth. Mitch pulled a flower into his hand and touched its soft petals with his baby-like fingers. I knew he was a gentle soul early on, but this moment made everything clear as a crystal spring. Next to my wife, I had never beheld such beauty as I did that day.
At this point we didn't know about Mitchell’s diagnosis of DMD. It would be another year before we would learn his terrifying fate. Mitch was so cute on this little adventure. He kept asking me to walk off the path and into the woods so we could see new things. I loved this day. I wrote in my journal that night, “Go gently, my son, into the future. The world will be brutal and unkind – but you don’t need to be. Your strength will be found in rising above everything that would pull you down. Go gently, my little boy – that you might bend, not break.”
And so it went with my son; he continued his life’s journey gentle and kind, perceptive and wise. Though he was a young child, it seemed as though he saw the world through heaven’s eyes. This little boy who broke my heart, was my teacher and I will ever be his student.
Mitch taught me that one can be strong and gentle at the same time. Too often people confuse kindness for weakness – but they are not the same. Eric Hoffer wisely observed, “Rudeness is the weak man’s imitation of strength.” The older I get, the more I know this is true.
I have observed people in my life abuse their strengths – which paradoxically became their saddest weakness; I've seen professionals, once titans of their industry, enter an opportunity like a blind Mongolian warrior swinging at everything and everybody …then turn to his peers and wonder if he got the right people; I've seen ordinarily smart and perceptive people use their gift of candor to criticize where no criticism was merited, and in fact well off the mark; others, I have observed, use their bold personalities to bully people into what they want. None of that is strength. It is the imitation of strength and in truth just the opposite; borne of insecurity and fed by disillusionment.
The last 2 years have been incredibly challenging, not only did I carry the weight of grief, I went through some professional crucibles that were soul-stretching. I don’t know that my troubles are over – in fact, I know they are not. But I am grateful for the hard times because they have opened my eyes, taught me important things and shaped me.
When I look back on my life and consider the things that have had the greatest impact, it was seldom a heavy hand but rather the disappointed eyes of a loving parent. It was a youth leader who, despite my teenage rebellion, reached for my hand while I was unaware I was drowning in poor choices. It was an English teacher who saw something in me I didn't see – whose gentle and kind observation changed the course of my life. It was a religious leader who offered loving encouragement and sound council – and most importantly, loving patience. And a Father who, from time-to-time, gave me just the little nudge I needed to keep going. He has never done the work for me – never robbed me of a chance to struggle and grow … but He has given me a gentle boost here and there. For that, I am grateful.
It is the gentle things that change us – not so much the harsh and terrible things.
On Mitchell’s dying day, I had taken a photo sequence of these same tender little hands, only a few years older, gently caressing his puppy who stayed at his side like a comforting angel. Mitch couldn't open his eyes and the muscles on his face had relaxed to a point he almost looked like a different person. He was slipping away and my heart was tumbling into a deep abyss of grief.
Yet, there he was, at least what was left of him: gentle and kind to the very end. My child was my teacher. He taught me how to see; through tears of grief and sorrow, he has been gently teaching me.
instagram.com/mitchells_journey/
Mitch loved shenanigans.
It was a hot summer day. Ethan was opening a present for his birthday when Mitch sneaked behind him and tried to smash a water balloon against his back. Because his arms were already weakened by DMD, Mitch struggled to lift the little water weapon above his shoulders. Lunging his body forward, Mitch hurled the balloon toward his brother with all his might and ran away giggling. I loved the sound of Mitchell’s giggle; endearing as it was contagious.
My little boy never missed an opportunity to live. I don’t mean live as in breathing – though he was very grateful to be alive. I mean to say Mitch never missed an opportunity to be in the moment … to love and laugh and drink life in the best he knew how.
Sometimes bitter ironies are the strongest teachers.
Grief is another ironic teacher. I have learned, as my friend Pat Furlong (Founder of Parent Project Muscular Dystrophy) taught me not long after Mitch passed away, that grief never really goes away. She, being no stranger to grief, told me that grief is a chronic condition: you don’t get over it, you don’t go through it … you just learn to live with it.
So, I have found grief ironic because while it has the potential to drain joy and life out of living, it has taught me to appreciate life in new and meaningful ways.
Such is the duality of grief: to be happy and sad … to be whole and broken all at once. Though I may laugh, smile and be filled with joy at any given moment, at the same time I carry the weight of grief … the weight of wanting my son back in my arms. Inside the heart of those who grief is a soul that yearns for joy and happiness, yet sorrows in what is lost. It is to be okay, but not okay … and learning to accept that’s okay.
That is learning how to live.
This Memorial Day weekend, I will honor those who fought and died so others may live. At the same time, I will also reverently honor my little boy who fought to stay alive and died ... and in so doing taught me how to live.
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.
“Dad, will you hold my hand? Will you help me not fall?” Mitch said with a sweet, soft voice. I reached out to hold his hand as Mitch leaned downward and reached into the crystal clear waters that flowed from a natural hot spring. “It’s like a bath! Do you think I could swim in it?” Mitch was fascinated that nature could produce such warm water. Until that moment, he only knew the icy streams that came from snowmelt.
We were at a fathers & son’s campout and I was so excited to hang out with my boys. We played Frisbee on the grass and cooked our famous tinfoil dinners and were the envy of every camper who could smell the magical meal cooking slowly in the glowing embers. Mitch loved that special recipe.
Later that evening we would find ourselves huddled in our family tent listening to a torrential downpour, exhilarated by the relentless crash of thunder that exploded right above our heads. Mitch snuggled into me with his sleeping bag as I wrapped my arm around him and held him tight. Little Wyatt sat on my other side, lovingly wrapped by my other arm. Ethan bravely sat with a smile and listened to the rain pound the walls of our tent, ready to pack up on a moments notice were we to flood.
We made it through the night dry and un-drenched. I am grateful for those moments with my family. If I have a regret in life it is that I didn’t have enough of them. I did my best, but I wish I would have done more.
I often think back on this moment when Mitch asked for help to do something other children could have done with ease. His muscles were weak and his balance always precarious. The slightest bump from someone could send him crashing to the ground. Often, Mitchie’s plea was, “Help me not fall.” Always, when he asked for help, I was reminded of things I took for granted.
Those words, “help me not fall” will echo in my mind forever. As his father, I didn’t want Mitch to fall and hurt himself … yet at the same time I didn’t want to rob my son the opportunity to do things on his own. Therein lies the delicate parental balance … to help enough to enable growth but not enough to rob it.
When I think about it, it doesn’t take much to recognize my Father is doing the same thing with me, and all of us. His hand is often out of view and we go about our lives unaware of His true goodness.
Just tonight something significant happened to me – a heavenly reminder that He is there … and that He cares.
Every time I kneel and ask my Father to “help me not fall” I get the distinct impression that He is not only there … but that He has always been there – helping me just enough to enable growth, but never enough to rob it.
At least on some level, being a Father myself, I think I understand now. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.