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.
Mitch was always concerned about falling. Unlike “regular kids” [as he called them] he lacked the strength to break his fall and lessen the impact of hitting the ground. Gravity was no friend to him and when he fell, he fell hard. Toward the end of his life Mitch found it increasingly difficult to get up from the ground by himself. Sometimes it was impossible.
Sweet Mitch wanted so much to run and play like other children. And when he did, he got himself in trouble. Every time he tried, he fell. Unlike a benevolent tutor, nature never rewarded his effort. In fact, the harder he tried the weaker he became.
Last summer we took our kids to a park just down the road from our home. I loved the summer clouds towering like mountains in the sky. Mitch and I used to lay on the grass and look in to the vast blue and imagine what it would be like if we could bounce from cloud to cloud like trampolines. This was one of those days.
Mitch was doing his best to run around and be like the others but he couldn't keep up. At one point he fell down pretty hard and Natalie raced to lift him. She said to him, “It’s okay honey, I’ll lift you when you fall.” I loved hearing that. I wrote about it in my journal that night and I cried. Her words kept playing back in my mind like a beautiful sonnet with a heavenly promise … “I’ll lift you when you fall.”
And that’s how it was with my wife … ever there to lift our children when they fell. If there was one thing Mitch could count on, it was his mom. She was there for him, always.
Mitch fell a lot this day … and he fell a thousand times since. Many times it was painful. But he always tried. And his mom, an angel made mortal … brokenhearted … was always there to lift him.
I miss my son. Oh, how I miss him. I would do anything to be tired again … to be worn out in his service. What I wouldn't do to be inconvenienced by his care if that meant I could hold his hand once more and look into his eyes and tell him how much I love him.
In this photo are two broken giants that I admire greatly. I stand deep in their shadow. I pray that I have the courage to try like my son tried. And I pray that I have the selflessness to set aside my own comforts and lift others like my sweet wife lifted my son. These two are my heroes. And I love them.
I cannot help but think that somehow, when all of this is over, we will find in our brokenness was the secret to being made whole. That our weakness, if we seek divine help, can be made strengths.
There is a reason we fall. And a reason we were meant to lift.
I’ll never forget the glow of the evening sun reflecting warmly from my snow-covered windowsill. By this time, we knew our son was at risk of sudden death and that each moment was more precious than the one before. Time was running short and we were very much afraid. So very afraid.
Natalie reached down and grabbed Mitchell's face, looked him in the eye, and told him how much she loved him. I don't know what Mitchell thought or felt at that moment, all I know is my heart grew a foot or two that day. However cold it was outside, I know he felt the warmth of his mother’s love – and Mitchell’s soft smile always set my soul on fire. A testament that gentleness can wield great power.
We knew death was circling our home and would soon thrash and claw at our door – so we just clung to each other and braced for death. Doctors at the time told us there was nothing left to do – that they had done their best. In a few short months from this photo, my little boy’s heart would stop and we would experience the deepest form of human grief. A place so dark, not even the light of noon day would light the way. And eventually, when we began to see … the broken road of grief would stretch out to infinity.
Like all who grieve, I wish I could go back in time to this very moment so that I could also grab Mitchell’s face, look him in the eyes and tell him that I loved him and how special he was to my heart. I would beg for him to play with me … to build Legos, draw pictures, cuddle and watch movies. I would have set aside everything I was doing to drink in one more moment. I did all that I knew to do … but I wish I did more. That is a burden of grief, too. Those moments of opportunity have long come and gone … and I’m reminded all we ever really keep are the things that we have done.
I was in a leadership meeting a few months ago where we were trying to deal with some challenges. A peer observed, speaking of someone who wasn’t stepping up to their responsibilities, “Well, he is really busy you know …” he paused a moment then gestured with his hand, “… busy with et cetera.”
I began to think deeply on that simple phrase … “busy with et cetera.” I thought back on my own life and began to take stock of my own life decisions: was I caught up in the froth of frilly things, or was I doing that mattered most? I’d like to think I always made the right choice – but when I’m honest, I know where I could have done things differently … done things better.
I’m not suggesting that everything in life be deep and heavy … I’m talking about the conversations I could have had with Mitch or my other kids, yet I was lost in my smartphone. Or that thing for work I chose to do on a Friday night, instead of spending time with my family. I’m talking about being anywhere, but nowhere.
It is so easy to get caught up in et cetera; the kinds of things that keep us from living in the moment and thriving … suddenly we find our souls shrinking … on the inside we’re dying. Et cetera: always pretending to be of substance, yet in truth is the thinnest of things … a deception of the heart that is, in the end, really quite mean. Et cetera has us drowning in information, yet ever thirsty for direction, meaning and truth. We get married to material things and lesser pursuits … unaware our once treasured relationships have become the caboose.
Now, I know I wasn’t that bad, you see … but seeing et cetera for what it is, I know what I don’t want to be.
When I sit at the foot of my son’s place of rest, I want so badly hug and love little Mitch as his daddy knows best. I would trade every et cetera that swept me away … I would give it all back for just one more day.
When I close my eyes I can almost feel tiny Mitch bouncing enthusiastically on my shoulders as only little kids know to do. “Dat’s Ashie!” he would yell, pointing over the rickety wood, water-stained fence that stood tall in our back yard.
Mitch, being a little boy, could finally see over the great wall that kept the outside world from view. His big sister was walking to school on the other side of the fence and Mitch blurted, “I see her! I see her! I wuv you Ash!” Ashley would smile and wave back to her baby brother – Mitch would then shrill with delight.
The fence was too tall for me to peer over, but Mitch could and he described all that he could see. I listened to his words of love and excitement, and that was more than enough for me.
Summer was just around the corner and we made modest plans to picnic at the park, splash at the public pool and play in our back yard. There were flowers to plant and our lawn to mow – our backyard was coming together by the skin of our toes. It wasn’t much, but it was our place and we loved it so.
At the time, I thought our young family had found its place in the universe. We were invisible to the world and that is just how we wanted it. If given the choice, I would have lived out my life in the quiet of our backyard and comfort of our family room.
But there was another fence in my life over which I couldn’t see; a fence so tall, it kept the future from my sight ... hardships I didn’t see coming straight for me … things that would break my heart and change the landscape of my family.
I wonder what would happen if we could see over the fence. There’s a reason we can’t and I believe it is heaven-sent. For faith is not just a gift but it’s a power, too; a guide and a teacher for souls like me and you.
As I’ve written in earlier posts, sometimes I think to myself, “If only Mitch could see what I see.” Then, I feel a gentle whisper that he would say the same to me. I am on my tippy toes trying to peer over the fence – to catch a glimpse of heaven and see where exactly my little boy went. But I cannot see what happens over there, for the fence is much too tall. So I am learning to listen closely for those quiet whispers and heaven’s gentle calls.
Though my heart cries out to see my son, that I might love and keep him safe, I know he’s on the other side – and that is a matter of my faith. But because faith is a power, too, it allows us to hear and see things hidden from mortal view. I can almost hear my son, “Dad, keep trying and one day you’ll see, the struggle and the sorrow not only taught you, but me. Remember that time when I was little and could see Ashley? Well, I can see over the fence again, Dad, if only you could see what I see.”