Mitch followed me wherever I went. He was my shadow … my dear child and sweet little friend. He seemed to always find comfort being around me and in his absence I have come to realize how much comfort I took in being around him.
Last summer we had some family over for a BBQ . Everyone was inside or up the hill in our back yard talking. I found myself at the grill doing what dad’s do and I turned to the place Mitch usually sat while I cooked and he wasn't there. Never a chair seemed so empty. I started to cry.
I took this photo a summer prior as Mitch sat with me while I prepared dinner at the grill one hot summer evening. It was a perfect night and I enjoyed listening to Mitch talk to me about his plans for the future. I normally never take selfies because I am far more interested in what I see in other people than I am in seeing myself. But this time I made an exception because I was with my sweet boy and I wanted a photo of the two of us. I almost didn't take this – but I am so glad I did.
I think I am beginning to understand the deeper meaning of the scriptural passage “the valley of the shadow of death.” Over the years I have heard many recite that passage as though they were words from a hallmark card. But I have come to learn that all of ancient scripture are not only accounts of mankind’s dealings with God, but a record of real sorrows, what we’re to learn from them and why we suffer. Deep inside that poetic prose are words that carry heavy meaning.
Death indeed has cast its shadow. Shadows, by their very definition limit ones view – we cannot see what happens over there. And in death’s towering shadow I find myself on a journey through the valley of grief … a valley that is deep in the shadows … deep in grief. It is a place where I stumble and a place where I weep as my heart and mind search for my son and that unspeakable peace.
I miss my son, my shadow. I love him. I weep for him. And as I find my way through the valley of grief and sorrow, deep in the shadow of death, I am not afraid … for I know God lives. I know He loves us. And while being mortal we may be required to suffer – there is a divine reason for all that we experience. If we look inward and upward we can learn and grow … even through the dark shadows and deep valleys that only God knows.
It was late afternoon and the air was almost uncomfortably humid and warm, even in the shadow of my home. It was Father’s Day 2012 – for those new to this blog, that was my last Father’s day with Mitch. My children each prepared a thoughtful gift and handed them to me. As I opened each gift carefully I looked my kids in the eyes thanked them for their love. Mitch sat next to me, like he always did at the dinner table. I miss that. Although I appreciated their thoughtful gifts – having them in my life was gift enough. A gift so grand I could scarcely contain myself.
I was always confused as a young child when I asked my mother or father what kind of present they wanted for their birthday. They would respond softly in their own way, “Oh, just draw me a picture or write me a letter. That is what I really want.” My little mind pondered over their answers, confused why they didn’t want a toy or the next new thing. After becoming a parent, I began to understand their answer. I would trade every possession I have for another handwritten note from Mitch. They are treasures to me and always will be.
When I first stumbled into this photo I wasn’t sure what to make of it. My heart first swelled to see a photo of Mitch and me together because they are relatively rare … at the same time it sank a little as I couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in the heart and mind of my son. Did he sense his life was coming to an end? Sometimes I think so. The more I reflect on my conversations with Mitch (many of which I have audio recorded and may share in future posts) I am beginning to sense something was brooding inside him. It was almost as if his soul knew something neither of us did – at least consciously. Mitch left little breadcrumbs that would suggest he sensed something big was going to happen. How big and terrible, we knew not.
Ironically, about 10 months before this photo was taken I told a business partner of mine, one with whom I share sacred conversations, that I sensed great unrest on the horizon. I told him I felt a significant change in my life was coming … so significant my soul nearly shivered. Yet, I wasn’t sure what it was. I even wrote about it in my journal. Sure enough, we would soon learn Mitchell’s heart was in serious trouble and that time was all we had left.
That brooding sense something was on the horizon was one of many tender mercies from my Father. A warning of love and compassion … a warning to make moments matter before it was too late. That intuition … that whisper from a higher power was not an isolated event. My Father told me something was wrong with Mitch the moment I first laid eyes on him in the delivery room. I knew it … in every way a human and soul could know something … I knew it. In the coming months, as I held my young infant I would begin to sense that not only was something wrong, but that his life would be short. I tried to brush that feeling off as nonsense … but deep inside, I’ve come to learn that insight was heaven-sent.
I am grateful for those [nearly] invisible warnings. They remind me so much more is happening than we have a mind to know.
At least for me, the more I examine and understand the past, the more equipped I am to live in the present. I appreciate the value of a moment much more today than I did a few years ago. When I think of all the stupid things I did, the trivial pursuits, the wasted moments and opportunities lost … I wince a little on the inside. But, I don’t let my regrets break me, instead I use them to shape me.
I suppose that’s the power of the examined life ... we stumble and fall, but we’re still alright.
There was a point where Mitch was on the razors edge of ability and disability. This was the point in his life he began to witness his physical strength slip through his fingers like sand on a windy day. No matter how much he tried to keep his strength, it simply would not stay.
Because he seemed vaguely normal, it was easy for others to dismiss his physical needs. Mitch often grappled with whether or not he should drive his scooter or try to walk. For a while he asked his mom or myself to carry him so he could go distances, then be set down to walk on his own and not stand out from the crowd. He wanted to feel normal as long as possible. Natalie, his tender mother, spared no inconvenience to help him feel normal and empower him to be all that he could be.
On this day I remember hearing Mitch ask in his soft voice, “Mom, will you carry me?” Natalie whispered, “Oh Mitchie, as long as I have you, I’ll carry you.” I’ll never forget how Mitch smiled as he wrapped his arms around his mom and how she carried him down a sidewalk. Mitchie smiled at me as if to say, “Dad, I’m the lucky one.”
I cannot remember a single time Natalie ever complained about caring for Mitch. That’s what love does, you see: it turns burdens into blessings. Sure there were days of exhaustion and discouragement, even moments of grief and fear. But in the end, caring for our little boy meant we still had him - and having him was worth the weight of everything.
Sometimes when I look at all that weighs heavy on my shoulders I can be tempted to think my burdens are my enemy … after all, they hurt and they’re heavy. But when I quiet my heart and try to look at life through heaven’s lens, I know whatever burdens I encounter are not only tender teachers … they are my friends.
Still, when I examine my life honestly, I wonder why my Father even puts up with me – a soul so rebellious and proud as mine. The child in my heart wonders if I’m more work for Him than is worth it. Then, like a whisper, I feel a nudge back to this moment with my wife and son. I remember how much I love my child, no matter how broken he might have seemed; my love for him is infinite and stretches to eternity.
If I would carry my son gladly … patiently … might my Father do the same to me? Something tells me we’re all being carried in ways we cannot yet see.
Perhaps, when all is said and done, we’ll look back on our lives ... hardships and all ... and say, just like little Mitch, “I’m the lucky one.”