It wasn't long ago my dear wife came into my basement office and handed me a sealed envelope. It was another breadcrumb left behind by our tender son that had been sitting in a small stack of papers waiting to be organized. On the front of the envelope was Mitchell’s handwriting in purple crayon addressed to his best friend Luke. As my wife gestured me to open it, my hands trembled a little. Actually, they trembled a lot. This undelivered letter was from Mitchie’s last real birthday (April 29th 2012).
As I opened the envelope and then the carefully folded paper, I felt that all-too-familiar lump in my throat begin to grow. Swallowing suddenly became difficult and the air became as thin as Jupiter's. The last person to touch that paper was my dear son – and my fingers trembled with grief. Mitchell’s sweet letter read, “Dear Luke, I am so sorry. Will you still be my friend? I really want to play with you. :-) I really want you to come to my birthday party this Friday.”
Beneath the hand written letter were balloons for those he invited or near to his mind. Included were his brothers and sister, and Derik and David (two young boys who live just down the street). Floating above the other balloons were two; one for Mitch and another for Luke – as if to symbolize their special friendship and olive branch. As if his carefully drawn artwork weren't enough, Mitch re-traced his letters with different colors to show that he really cared. I love children.
Mitch and Luke almost always got along, but because they were human they also had disagreements from time-to-time. Clearly, this was one of those moments. A childhood indiscretion was noted, a soft petition for forgiveness was made … and my heart swelled to see the innocence of children on display.
In the grand scheme of things their disagreement was hardly a speed bump … but to Mitch, a young boy who treasured his relationships, it was a mogul turned mountain and he wanted to make it right. Luke, was ever the faithful, forgiving friend to Mitch and they always seemed to bounce back quickly if there was ever a disagreement on either side.
I’ll never forget when Luke stood at the foot of Mitchell’s bed the evening before he passed away to say goodbye and share how much he loved him. That was a moment that brought me to my knees and broke my soul into smithereens. Never had I seen a more powerful gesture of brotherly love among humans. I pray that I never have to see such a sight again.
I admire the absolute goodness of children. If only adults could be as grown up as our little ones are at times. Emma Goldman wrote, "No one has yet fully realized the wealth of sympathy, kindness and generosity hidden in the soul of a child. The effort of every true education should be to unlock that treasure." At least to me, this handwritten note from my son (a letter that could have been written by any one of your children), is a master class in what it means to be human. Mitch and Luke taught me through crayon and pencil that to forgive is to truly live.
Any more, it seems the older I get the more I find myself trying to unlearn what the world has taught me and re-learn what children demonstrate so naturally.
Last spring we were visited by 4 kind women who had been following Mitchell’s Journey for some time. The woman closest to Natalie lived near us when we were young newlyweds. They quickly became soul sisters … you know, the kind of friend you don’t see for years and pick up exactly where you left off. That is them. Interestingly, I have the same relationship with her good husband.
As it turned out, her neighbors and friends pictured in this image stumbled into Mitchell’s Journey at various points and they realized they all had that in common and took compassion for the loss of our little boy. Together, they purchased a gift for our family; a most beautifully framed painting that was symbolic of heavenly help while we suffer, even in our darkest hours. I will write of that piece of art soon because it has touched us deeply.
Attached to the back of the artwork was a heart-felt letter written to our family, which ironically was as much a gift as the beautiful art that now graces our home.
After much thought, we decided to hang the painting in our bedroom so it could serve as a reminder that, though we suffer, we are helped by others, even angels, we cannot see. I know this to be true. I know it because I have felt it: not once, not twice, but many, many times. Another reason we wanted this painting to hang near our bed was so that on nights when the pain of loss is especially tender, our pillows wet with tears; or when we awake in a panic (in the fog of sleep, forgetting our son has passed) and wanting desperately to save Mitchell’s life, only to fully awake and realize he is gone; we wanted the first thing we saw to be this painting. For those moments between sleep and consciousness are our darkest hours.
I don’t think these good-hearted women realize to this day what they did for us. Not only did they mourn with those that mourn, they offered a token of love that pointed to a higher source of help … a reminder that despite the darkness we sometimes feel, heaven is never far away.
As I was taking photos this day I began to think back on Natalie’s relationship with her friend, Kristin, and how interesting it was all of these good women came together. I wrote in my journal, and even posted this phrase: “I used to envision life’s journey as a single, straight path: I’m born, I live, then die – its simple math. But the older I get, the more I’m beginning to see, how intertwined our lives really can be. Life’s not a path to be tread by one, but a web so intricate and woven ... It is, I am certain, heavenly spun.”
It is seldom clear to what end things are meant to be. I just take them as they come and try to see things as Heaven sees. I don’t know much, but I have learned a thing or three - one of them being: when it comes to heaven … the more you look, the more you see. And when I look at this photo, I see 6 earthly angels .. six tender mercies. Then, in a moment of heavenly delight, grief subsides and I feel everything's going to be alright.
A dear friend of mine I met on #mitchellsjourneyalways runs (and he runs a lot) with an image of my son on his shirt. Though we are a world apart and our language and cultures are different, I love this man like a brother.
He just ran a half marathon in Tel Aviv in memory of Mitch and sent this photo and kind message that Mitch is never far from his heart.
Two years later, he remembers my son.
One day, I would love to meet him in person.
I took Wyatt to work with me today and had a most wonderful time. He is on the track system and has the next few weeks off and wanted to spend some time with me at the office.
So, he sat patiently while I was in meetings and never once complained. Just after one particular meeting this morning he asked me, "Dad how long was that meeting?" I responded, "Oh, it was about an hour." Wyatt said "Wow, that felt like 4 hours." I smiled, pat him on the head and told him that I loved him. I said, "One day, time won't seem to go so slow ... and you'll wake up and wonder where all the time went. You'll wish for it to slow down, but it will only seem to go by faster."
I then took Wyatt with me to see one of my clients - someone I've worked with for many years and has become a dear friend to me. We've traveled the world together and done some great projects.
My client-turned-friend even attended Mitchell's funeral, not because he had to, but because he cared.
So as I sat at his table ready to talk about some upcoming work for the year, he pushed everything aside, reached into a cupboard and pulled a bucket of treats, placed it on the table and just sat and talked to Wyatt for a while.
My heart swelled, because this good man cared about people ... and at the end of the day people (and relationships) matter most. My heart was especially touched because my friend's mother is dying of ALS right now. Though not the same as DMD, they share many outward characteristics ... most notably catastrophic muscle wasting; and at the end stage an inability to breathe, swallow or move on ones own. The timing is unknowable, but she might only have about a week left. I know his heart is heavy ... but not so heavy that he can't lift the heart of a little boy and help him feel important and good about himself.
Wyatt left his office feeling a lot more confident ... and as small as he is, that he still matters to big people. I am so grateful for good people like my friend Jeff. If the world were a cup, it would be overflowing ... correction, it IS overflowing with good people, just like all of you.