It was cold and snowy outside when we heard a tap on our front door. It was Rodney Thornell, a neighbor and friend who lived just a few blocks away. Standing beside him was his own puppy whose face peered upward with the innocence of a sweet child. Rodney and his family named their dog Dragon. Mitch thought that was neat because he loved dragons … and puppies. Mitch later told me, “Dad, what a cool idea. If I get another dog, I want to do the same thing.”
This good man, knowing our son was home on hospice and running out of time, came to our home to cheer Mitch up and offer a smile or two. Mitch laughed and laughed as he watched his tiny puppy bark and jump about as if she were a credible match to her much larger play friend. In Marlie’s mind, she was as big as or bigger than Dragon. It didn’t matter that Dragon’s head was about as big as Marlie’s entire body – she had made up her mind and that was it.
Unaware of his size and relative strength, Dragon’s playful paw would knock Marlie over and she would summersault forward a time or two. Like a snowflake or tiny ninja, Marlie would bounce back to her bitty paws as if nothing happened and go at it again with her adorable little bark. She was a fighter. Just like Mitch.
Mitch loved to watch those dogs play – and so did we.
I don’t think this good man knows what he did for our family and especially little Mitch. He could have sat on the other side of his computer screen, watching our posts and feeling after us. He might have also offered a prayer or two on our behalf. Instead, this good man, who happened to also be our family dentist and had cared for our son’s teeth in previous years, cared also for his heart and soul. He served our family with love and compassion. It is amazing how a little love can lift a broken heart and soul.
Rodney was always kind and considerate to our family. He never stayed too long; just enough to lift our son’s spirits, then he was on his way. He came a few times – which really meant a lot to our family - especially Mitch.
I remember walking him to the door on his last visit before little Mitch passed away. I had a sinking feeling in my heart that would be the last time little Mitch would see them. I swallowed the lump in my throat as my friend walked away. Later that night I prayed that his family would be blessed 1,000-fold for the goodness he showed us.
There is a saying (there are many variations) that goes something like this: “In all things, teach others about [God], and when necessary, use words.” I am grateful for my neighbor, friend and family dentist who taught me heavenly things… not through words, but quiet deeds.
About a week ago I was approached by a Mitchell's Journey follower who had something in common with our family. Her Charlie and our Mitchell were both students of a very special preschool teacher who was about to retire. Both of our children had also passed away.
So, yesterday Natalie and I attended a retirement banquet for this remarkable woman who played in important role in our son's life. She was a tender mercy for our boy as she helped him make a delicate transition to school. Mitch quickly grew in confidence because of the way she encouraged and guided him. We hadn't seen her for about 10 years so this was a special reunion. At her display table was a kind of memorial with photos of all of her students throughout her career - an evidence this woman was a remarkable teacher who loved her students. The best educators are the ones that teach with love of topic and student.
Next to the collage of former students was a larger panel with tributes to three of her special needs students who passed away, Mitch being one of them. It was a tender reunion filled with a lot of love and gratitude.
Here Natalie writes a note to "Mrs. Nancy" thanking her for being so kind and loving to our baby. We had never forgotten her and she clearly remembered little Mitch. When we moved from our first home a decade ago we thought we'd never cross paths with this remarkable teacher again. Fate, or providence, would have it otherwise.
It is interesting how at any given moment we might think a person in our lives a solitary, temporary thread ... unaware how woven our lives may become. The people and events in our lives make for a fascinating tapestry we may not appreciate, or even see, until deep in the twilight of our own lives.
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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.
Over the Christmas break I took some time off … pretty much everything. I didn't post much here or anywhere. I still captured a lot of photos – but my mind and attention were on my family.
Natalie prepared a fabulous candlelight meal Christmas Eve. As we sat in our dining room I noticed a place set for Mitch, right next to me … where he always sat. Never a chair felt as empty as that chair did that night. I didn't say anything, but I noticed it. I think everyone quietly noticed it. Sometimes, in the rush of routines, we forget and set six places at the dinner table. This time it was deliberate. This time it was quiet act of love, a yearning of the heart, that somehow our little son might join us, sight unseen. And if not, it served as a memorial to a little boy we all loved and missed – and whose company we dearly wished.
As we ate our meal, everyone took turns telling each other what we loved about one another. It was a tender time and I loved to hear my kids talk so kindly about their siblings. Sometimes when our children fight or argue, I worry. But alas, my heart swelled when I heard Laura-Ashley sincerely compliment her younger brothers; I was proud of Ethan as we listened to him offer thoughtful observations and gestures of love toward his siblings; and I loved to hear Wyatt express his love for everyone in his young, unique way. Natalie and I both took turns, too, telling our kids what we admired and loved about them. Of all the gifts we shared that holiday, the gift of love was chief among them.
At the end we all took turns saying what we thought Mitch might have said about each one of us. We giggled a lot and cried a little. It was a beautiful night. I took a photo of the candle at the table and thought about Mitchie's last Christmas, two years prior. I then began to think about how fast, yet slow, time has already passed and how grief is no less punishing today as it was the day of his passing.
The truth about grief is it is a flame that cannot be extinguished. As long as I love, there will be fire. The difference is found in how I carry it. How I channel it.
Grief can either burn me or help me see. I choose to see.